Safe Place
by ultimateform14
Summary: ...because safety is important, and so is sleep. That's the only reason she could conclude for why she found herself where she was, at that moment.
1. Deep Breaths

The air by the lab was a lot less stiff than the air in the warehouse she had just come from. With steady hands, she gratefully rolled up the window in the GMC she was climbing out of, and all but flung herself out into the parking lot to take a deeper breath. And she let it out... taking in the scenery that she was always also grateful to have another chance to see after a case like her last one. Brushes with death were nothing new, but they still never quite felt commonplace. And for that, she was also grateful, even if for different reasons...

She reached into the GMC and grabbed what remained of her investigations kit and jacket up off the back of the driver's seat to hang over her arm. In the squad car that was just pulling up a few parking spaces away, she saw Brass getting out as eagerly as she had. He brushed the front of his suit off, and handed the keys to his squad member with hushed words that Sara couldn't hear. So, as the young cop took off for the building with the keys in hand, she turned to go for the lab next door.

"Hey!" she suddenly heard.

She turned, and her automatic reaction to the sight of Brass running up to her with surprising speed was to smile from behind the sunglasses she had just put on. For what reason, she didn't know; the sun was setting, and it would be low enough to darken the world around long before it would go beyond the horizon entirely.

But still she smiled, and did not remove them. "Hi," she replied almost as automatically. "Feeling better?"

"Oh, please," he teased. "I just saved your ass, who are you talking about?"

She laughed. "I suppose so, but, really... How are you feeling?"

"I'm okay. I'm okay..." he answered. Almost as if he was just going through the motions... "But that happens more often for me and my side, huh? You've only been there every once in a while, yourself. So how are YOU doing?"

In the old days, she would have been annoyed. And she was at least 90% sure he was thinking of a time past where she had burst in during the scene suspect clearing with her gun and caught a man climbing out of his apartment window. It had been embarrassing, when she'd thought about it later on. Perhaps in part because of Nick's later faux-annoyance...

But tonight, she was too shaken up to bother. At least, to bother too much... "I'm... going to be fine," she tried.

He didn't seem much more convinced than she was. He lowered his head and looked at her over a pair of glasses she could easily imagine him wearing, anyway...

"I just need the time recover, you know?" she tried again. "It's not as bad as waking up under a car in a desert. I've had worse."

He laughed humorlessly at that, but shrugged his shoulders, just the same. "Like I said once before, I'm just lookin' out for ya."

"Thanks," she answered with a less formal smile. "But I really am fine."

She turned to go at the same time he did. But then his voice again stopped her.

"If I could give you any advice, Sidle..." he called across the lot to her, "...I'd find myself a safe place for the night. Sometimes, you just don't want to go home. Especially not in this job..."

 _Or with this marital status_ , she finished in her thoughts. But what she said was, "Alright. Maybe I'll stay in a nice hotel, or something. I'll call it my recovery fund."

"Somethin' like that. Whatever works for ya. Make a call, line it up. Go for it."

She nodded once, formal smile back in place, and turned for the lab before he could add anything else. As she reached the front door, her hands had begun to shake. She'd hoped to keep that down long enough to clock out and get home. And she was sure everyone else would hear about it by tomorrow, so she wanted to get going before the sympathy – even if much-appreciated – began; she just didn't think she could do it, at the moment...

With another steadying deep breath, she flung the door back and went into the lab. Right by the desk, the key collection box was mercifully unattended, so she didn't have to endure the usual questioning from the receptionists about what was up with current case. She deposited the keys to the department GMC, and slid around the desk with the speed of a woman who hadn't worn heels. And thank God for that one, as well...

It didn't seem to be too busy that night. Oddly enough, it was more day shift than night workers that she saw... with the only exceptions being Hodges and a rather amused-looking Morgan going over something by the materials lab. She offered a brief wave in their direction when they looked up, but kept her brisk pace all the way to the locker room. Where she could get her reports from her locker, and write in her clock-out time for what she would call an emergency exit, to be delivered to Russell in the morning...

It was only her luck that someone else's voice was coming out of it. They didn't talk loudly enough for her to make out what they were saying, whoever they were, but they sounded busily engrossed. Probably someone on the phone... But that seemed like an acceptable enough distraction for her to slide in and get what she was getting without drawing too much attention to herself. Because standing just outside the door was making her nervous; her leg was beginning to bounce up and down, and sometimes breathing didn't work in the lab. There were times when the air felt too sterile and uncomfortable, and this was one of them...

But giving one palm a punch with her other hand did wonders, so she crossed the corner to reach her locker – the one closest to the door on the night shift's side – and practiced a reassuring grin in case it was someone who needed one.

And the someone she found there would. A much better one than what she was wearing, probably, and she would have to be luckier than she seemed to have recently been if it was going to work with him at all. He was already standing facing the door, leaning against the lockers on the day shift side, eyes directly on her. In his other hand, he was just hanging up the phone call he had been talking over.

"Nick."

She said it more as a statement of fact than of greeting, and her grin became so falsely wide that she felt busted immediately.

He didn't look convinced, but if he knew anything was up, he didn't let on. "Hey, there, sunshine."

"Are you just starting, or getting off?" she asked.

"Don't say 'getting off'," he almost begged. "I had the grossest day..."

She had crossed to her locker and begun to root around in it. More for the stability of someone else's case than anything, she decided to press it.

"Why? Something dirty on your mind?"

"Oh, always. As soon as I see you," he pretended to confess.

It took no work to flash him her next grin from around the locker door.

"But, even such a beautiful sight couldn't turn me on right now. This last victim was killed by a compulsive masturbator. I've never collected so many sperm samples in my life. That was NOT in my contract..."

"There was no contract," she reminded him playfully.

She slammed the door, and went to lean on it like him, but realized just shy of making shoulder contact with it that she had forgotten her reports.

He looked at her funny as she flung it open with frustration and seized them in their folders. "I suppose not," he said awkwardly. "And I can always be grateful I didn't have to do the processing. We had us a lab team today. What a concept, idn't it?"

She bit her lip against the giggling that sometimes wanted to come out of her when he used that southern speech of his. "I couldn't disagree if I tried."

"And you couldn't try if you really wanted to."

"Exactly."

She gave her head a small shake, and scratched across the box on the report paper that said "SOLVED". A small sigh of relief escaped her lips...

"Glad to be done, too?"

She looked up at his question, and, after staring at him for a few moments, nodded. "Yeah. It wasn't a pleasant one."

She must have shown more than she felt, because he came up to her and put a hand on her shoulder at once.

"I'm sorry," he said in a voice both low and husky with sympathy.

"It isn't your fault." She relaxed her head down on top of his hand and closed her eyes for a moment.

"I know. But I wish it wasn't so hard on all of us, all the time," he offered. "You do wear it well, but..."

Her eyes popped open, and her head righted itself. "I wear it well?" she asked almost incredulously.

"False modesty is unattractive, Sara," he replied without missing a beat. "You have to know that you do, at least a little."

She leaned her head back and gave it a little shake. But the grin that remained had likely undermined her intention a little. "If you say so, Tricky Nicky."

They exchanged warm looks... but then she decided she must be off. He looked a little anxious, too. He'd probably been setting up a date, or something along those lines, before she'd come in. So she turned and left the locker room with the reports.

The halls were still busy, but not enough that no one would notice her purposeful stride. She was fortunate enough to see Russell pouring over the details of someone else's case with them. She didn't know who it was, but she figured she'd be better off if she didn't have to sit through his ritualistic third degree. So she slid the reports onto his desk and headed out. She was just ahead of Finn, too... who seemed to pay a lot more attention than anyone else had in the halls, and called after her.

"I'm fine!" Sara yelled back over her shoulder. "Just fine!"

She thought she heard Finn say something about not having asked that, but she didn't stay to find out.

She was almost running when she came out into the parking lot. It was darker out, and she reached her own car with a fervent gratitude. As she slid into the driver's seat and shut the door behind her, she leaned back on the headrest and tried to look up at the ceiling without closing her eyes.

That morning, she had gotten the call that a girl's body had been found tangled in some fallen live wires. They knew it was possibly not an accident because of the gun lying right beside her, and Russell had pulled Sara's name for the case. It had been kind of a grueling one. The girl had been left there after a rather vicious rape, if the trauma David had found was any indication, and as best as she could tell, the live wires had fallen afterwards. But it was the boot prints that led them to the criminal; the electric shock had dried up all of his own DNA. Thanks to a quick tip from Greg, she had learned that the boot prints were ordered special for the warehouse that the killer worked in, and that was what got her there.

He'd been totally crazy, though. Beneath his press, he had kept a rather large shotgun. She did close her eyes to chase away the sight of the barrel right at her chest, but it wasn't working much more than her hope that she would open her eyes to the interior of her car roof instead of the image that her mind kept. She had thought Brass was dead, for a moment, because a reflection in the window had given off the illusion that he'd been shot by an accomplice. That was when she had been fairly sure she would not be coming home from that investigation. With no element of surprise and a loaded shotgun at her chest, reaching for her own weapon would never have worked.

But Brass hadn't been dead. The accomplice was, thanks to the good work of the rookie who had taken the keys to the squad car from Brass when they'd first got back. It had been over in a flash: Brass' weapon had fired at the exact moment Sara had blinked, and when she opened her eyes, the killer was on the floor, blood pooling out of his head. Best they could tell from an earlier look into his computer, he'd taken the girl because he'd found her sleeping in his company's warehouse. And the large amount of money they'd found hidden under his press, in a code-locked safe etched into the floor, suggested he'd been worried that she would find and take it. His therapist HAD deemed him paranoid... Perhaps not quite enough to have done what he did, however... and it had been a surprise to all involved that he'd gone so crazy, so suddenly...

She sat up and sniffled away a tear that had started to go rolling down her cheek. It had been bad enough that the girl was obviously homeless, but to be raped and murdered by a cash thief from a desert warehouse...? The injustice of such things had always bothered her, particularly when it was a girl who was involved...

 _"How sexist of you,"_ she could just hear Nick saying.

It wasn't much... In fact, it hadn't even been said, but it was enough for her to smile again. So she turned her key to start her car and get heading back home.

Best she could tell when she thought about it later, the sound of the ignition must have hidden the click of the pistol that she felt against her temple in the next second.


	2. Shaky Hands

"Holy..." she breathed out.

"Yeah," answered a scratchy and gravelly voice. "That's right. 'Holy...'"

"Who are you?"

"That's none of your concern," he answered. "All you need to know is, I'm pissed... and if I'm going to die because of what you found today, then so are you."

"What I found? I don't know what-"

"Don't lie to me!" shouted the gunman.

An arm came up around Sara's neck, and pulled it back against the headrest of the seat. She choked out a gurgle, and then held perfectly still.

"You know exactly what I mean, Ms. Sidle," continued the gunman, in a lower and calmer voice. "It's the money you found. It's very important to my boss that I get that money where it needs to go on time. Do you realize what you've done? My wife thinks I'm out! As soon as we had our children, I swore to my wife that I got out! Even if I don't die, my wife will leave me!"

"I'm sorry," Sara managed to squeeze out. "I didn't know you were even attached to the case."

"Of course you didn't." In the rear view mirror, his eyes rolled. "And stop looking up at that."

He reached out and bashed the mirror right off its holder with the butt of the gun. Sara's eyes widened, and she choked a little bit more as the shattered mirror rolled over onto her lap.

"I am SO not in the mood..." the gunman continued.

Sara exhaled as little as she could, to keep her airways as open as possible for however long this monologue might go on...

"Do you know what happened yesterday, Ms. Sidle? My daughter turned sixteen."

"Congratulations," Sara tried, somewhat unwillingly.

He wrenched his arm back a little bit, giving her neck a bit of a yank. "DON'T play those games with me. I won't be around to see it..."

"We can protect you," Sara tried again. "Come inside and tell us what's going on, we can protect you."

"Oh, yeah, yeah, yeah, I've heard that before. They used to say that all the time to my mother when she went to the hospital for the bruises dad put all over her. It never did jack shit for us. And if you couldn't protect her from one mean drunk, how could you be able to protect my entire family from someone as powerful as my boss?"

"We have the forewarning!" Sara exclaimed. "We can use whatever information you have!"

"I'll take my chances," he dismissed, pressing the gun a little closer to her temple. "Besides, the things I've done...? It's too late for that now."

The cock of the gun clicked. Sara's eyes widened and her mouth opened, and a sweat bead rolled right down her forehead onto her tongue.

BANG!

Then she opened her eyes back up. There was no more weapon against her head. But there _was_ blood on her clothes. And the little clear things looked like pieces of glass...

"Sara?!"

That voice sounded familiar... And much less unsettling than the last one she'd heard. She sighed, and whipped out of the door like a lightning bolt, stumbling right back into the body of whoever had just saved her. Strong hands gripped the sides of her arms, and she spun around in spite of them to see that it was Nick who had just arrived.

"Nick..."

"Hey! Are you alright? Can you hear me okay?"

She nodded, and collapsed against his chest like a rag doll.

He wasted no time; one hand against her back, the other reaching for the radio on his hip. "Control, this is CSI Stokes in the Vegas PD and Crime Lab parking lot. We've had a shooting. Send backup."

"Backup on its way."

"Phew..." she exhaled. "How did you find me?"

"This ring rolled out of your pocket when you slammed your locker door open. It looked kind of important, so I grabbed it and came after you. Finn told me you were out here."

She looked down at the small object in his hand, and raised her eyebrows. He knew damn well it was important; it was her old wedding ring.

"Thanks," was all she could say. She took it and stuffed it back in her pocket. "For... everything, I mean..."

"Yeah... Yeah," he said. "Not a problem. Thought I lost you, there, for a second."

"Oh, no," she answered, disappearing into his rather large-feeling grip. "No, it wasn't my day."

She felt him chuckle a couple of times, and when he pulled back, and they stood up straight, there was a bright smile all over his face. His hands came up to touch the side of hers, as if he were checking to make sure everything was all where it should be.

"Dear God..." he said quite simply.

"Yeah... Dear God..."

And in spite of her long day, she was smiling, too. Just as the sirens were approaching, and several other police men were spreading out around them...

Then came Russell's voice. "What the hell happened out here?"

"I don't know," replied Nick. "I came out, and I found him with a gun to her head."

"Sara!" called Russell. "Sara?"

"I'm fine," she repeated for what felt like the millionth time since her shift had ended.

"Yeah, yeah, sure you are," Russell patronized, and then turned to the officers around. "Seal it off! We're going to get started processing toNIGHT." He looked kindly at her, where she was back to leaning against Nick with very carefully budgeted breaths. "I wanna know who went after my CSI."

* * *

It was a long time before Greg came to get her clothes.

"My lucky night," he flirted.

But it hadn't gone over so well with Sara. She had given him a look the likes of which Nick had never seen on any woman's face before. And Sara was one of the fiercest women he knew... He also knew it shouldn't make him chuckle, but it did. Greggo had never really known when to quit...

Of course, he'd had to turn in his shirt, too. With her having leaned on him, there was blood on what he had been wearing. It was actually cold out in the parking lot, even though it was Las Vegas, and he didn't notice that until he had given his shirt to Finn for processing.

"You know the drill," she reminded him. "You'll get it back when we're done with it."

He offered her a dutiful salute. "I don't mind," he teased, flexing the other arm. "The boys need their air."

She laughed, but was pulled away quickly by Russell to get started on the car. She tossed Greg Nick's shirt to take with while he was escorting Sara inside to change. Nick watched them go with a shake of his head. They both looked awfully tired... And Sara had just been on a case that had very clearly shaken her up. Testimony about almost being killed on her way home to get away from it was sure to be the cherry on top of the milkshake.

But, on the bright side, it didn't take Super Dave nearly as long as usual to arrive. "Nick! What happened?"

"Someone tried to shoot Sara."

As he said it, there was a rush of cold in his stomach and chest that had nothing to do with the night air. If he hadn't gone out after her like he almost didn't, he... THEY... would have been one Sara down...

"What?! Why?!" demanded David.

"I don't know, Super Dave. She's with Greg for collection. I'm here for questioning about my shoot."

A wide-eyed look came across David's face. "You shot the guy?"

"Yeah."

Truthfully, he almost hadn't attempted that, either. Not when the idea of hitting Sara instead of her attacker had gone through his mind... It was when the gunman had leaned back to pull on her neck that he had taken a shot through the back window. It made him shudder a little more. Shooting people was something else that had technically never been on that imaginary contract of his...

"Thank God you got there," he heard David say, from what sounded like a great distance.

He shook his head a little and looked up. "Yeah. Yeah..."

"Mr. Stokes?"

It was Ecklie. In the split second before he turned around, Nick hung his head, and mouthed "of course" to himself.

"Yes, sir?"

"I'll be handling your shooting inquiry on the department's end."

Then he stopped. Like he'd just realized the state of the inquiry's topic... His eyes ran up and down Nick's torso.

"Is this how you'll be representing yourself?"

"I thought about it, but Finn advised otherwise. I'll get a shirt after I'm cleared to go."

"Well, consider this your permission. Give me your gun, and we'll meet you in interrogation."

Nick undid his belt and handed the whole thing over, instead of messing with the intricate details of the straps holding his holster on it. "The department ammo's already back with the ballistics. Bet you just can't wait!"

"Oh, yeah," said Ecklie. "I'm just pumped to spend my night interrogating one of my CSIs instead of going home to bed."

"Miss the day shift?" quipped Nick before turning.

"Substantially!" called Ecklie after him.

In spite of his general dislike for the guy, Nick couldn't help grinning at the pavement. He offered a two-fingered wave over his shoulder, but did not look back as he kept walking for the lab's front door. It really WAS getting cold out...

Morgan was in the locker room, with Hodges handing her a spray bottle of something from the CSI's reserves. "Hey!" she called up from the floor she was kneeling on. "Exciting night?"

"I'd say so," added Hodges. "Is that look part of protocol now?"

"No," retorted Nick. "There was a shooting, and Sara got the blood all over me."

No matter how much of an ass... "Sara?" asked Hodges, snapping to. "Is she okay?"

Nick dug around in his locker with frustration. "Yeah, she is. Probably not real happy, but she's not hurt."

Morgan rose to her feet, dropping the other bottle she had been carrying back into the crate. "My God, what happened?" she demanded.

"Somebody was waiting for her in her car," he said in the act of putting on a new shirt. "I went out after her because she'd dropped her wed- well, something valuable to her." He cleared his throat. "I saw the guy with a gun up against her head, and I shot him."

"Holy shit," said Hodges.

"Yeah. Greg's with her, now. I've gotta go back to interrogation and meet up with Ecklie. He's doing the prelim on the inquiry, I guess."

They must have been able to tell he was not happy about it. They both looked down and away from him, anyway...

He strode from the locker room in the lab through to the interrogation rooms without acknowledging anyone else, and found that one of the interrogation rooms was already closed with the blinds. That must've been where Sara and Greg were. He stopped, and was struck by a very sudden, and stupid idea: knock and ask how they were doing.

It mightn't have sounded so stupid under normal circumstances, perhaps, but when there had just been a shooting out in the parking lot – and he'd been the one to pull the trigger – getting in the way of normal procedure would probably not be a smart thing to do. Especially not with Ecklie presiding... He sat down in the chair he was standing by and waited, instead...

Down the hall, Brass was talking with Detective Crawford. It didn't look like a friendly conversation, and he supposed it was about the shooting that had just occurred. He sighed with great annoyance, and leaned back to rest his head on the wall. Eventually, Ecklie came by with a cell phone up to one ear.

"Nick, let's go in here," he whispered.

"Whose that?" Nick whispered back as he regained his feet.

"IA," Ecklie mouthed back.

And whoever they were, they seemed to be more interested in telling Ecklie their life story. Through the phone, Nick could hear words that told him the other end was not talking business. And after a few moments of it, his dearest ambition became to smack the phone away into a corner...

"That's great," Ecklie eventually said. "I hope it goes very well for her. Hey, is your supervisor there yet?"

"Oh!" Nick heard through the receiver. "Yes, here he is!"

While Ecklie described the situation over the phone, Nick's mind wandered back over the last hour or so's events. He supposed he'd better focus on the facts so he could report them to Ecklie, and then again to whoever IA sent. It was never a pretty thing whenever someone in any branch of law enforcement had to use their weapon. Even if it was under justifiable circumstances... like saving Sara's life... someone always frowned on it, and made the process of proving the given a long and tiring one...

But he couldn't seem to focus. She had looked more frightened than he could really remember seeing her before. It gave him a rolling feeling in his stomach that he didn't much like... seeing, again, in his mind her eyes go wide, and her mouth hanging open...

He blinked furiously, and brushed his fingertips over his eyelids as if to clear the image away. Instead, he thought of her after she had recovered from her incident out in the desert. After Natalie Davis had put her under that car... It had been what most people would probably call more traumatic, and she had gotten over it pretty quickly. A lot quicker than he had being dug up and pulled narrowly away from an exploding bomb... And she'd been so great to have around after that; it was like she'd made it her mission to see to him getting better after such a thing.

He smiled at his hands on the table, thinking about how often a day she had bugged him with coffee. A small gesture, to be sure, but it was all they really knew in the world of crime scene investigating: when in doubt, go for the coffee...

Then Ecklie's voice broke into his reverie. "Okay, great. Thanks." He snapped the phone shut, and almost threw it across the table. "They're backed up," he explained. "They'll send someone as soon as they can. But with your spotless record, and the occasional failure at the shooting range, they figure you're not a deranged murderer disguised as a CSI."

"What a relief," joked Nick. "I don't suppose it's enough that I can go home, now, though, is it?"

"Not quite." Ecklie rifled some papers, and turned one that had been upside down right side up. "I'm glad you were there, though. For all their troubles, I doubt Grissom would have taken Sara dying like that very well."

Nick averted his gaze. Bringing up Grissom to him at a time like that could be seen in one of two ways. "I'm glad I was there, too," was all he could say.

"So, why don't you tell me what happened?"

* * *

"I got in my car," Sara explained to Greg and Crawford. "It's been... kind of a long day, and I was definitely ready to go home. I stopped to rest for a moment, and after I turned my key, I felt a gun against my head."

She swallowed. Almost killed by two guns in one day...

"He said something about what I had found. The money I brought back with Brass earlier? It's in evidence. He said 'his boss'" – she quoted in the air – "was looking for it. He wouldn't tell me who his boss was, but he seemed very scared. He kept mentioning his wife. He said she thought he was 'out'. I don't know what that means, either. But he seemed very convinced that I did whatever I did on purpose. He said not to lie to him when I told him I didn't know what he was talking about at first."

Crawford was taking notes religiously, but Greg was just kind of watching. Leaned back in his chair, nothing moving but for the slight change in his fairly concentrated eyes as they scanned over her. She blew up at her hair and stared back; he had to know she was okay so he could sleep that night.

Because if he didn't, she wouldn't either; he'd be calling her every few minutes to ask if she was really alright. She was sure that he understood how a "yes" or "no" answer should be more than suitable for such a situation, but it wouldn't stop him from calling all the time...

And then he asked her the question. "How did Nick get involved?"

"I had seen him in the locker room before I left. I guess my wedding ring flew out of my pocket. He picked it up, and was coming to give it to me. He saw what was going on, and... he shot."

And again, for another moment, Crawford's pen was the only noise in the room. Greg seemed satisfied enough with this that he bobbed his head once, and relaxed both his stare and his body position. They waited for Crawford to finish whatever he was writing, and occasionally glanced over at each other.

"Would you like to go to the hospital after all this?" inquired Greg.

"Not likely," said Sara. "I think I just want to go home." Or sort of...

Something of that hesitation must've shown. "No, you don't," accused Greg. "You need to be checked out. You've got a bruise on your neck."

"Bruises heal."

"But they heal better with a doctor's help."

Sara frowned. She had been hoping she could count on Greg to see that she wasn't up for the usual. His challenging tone was not appreciated.

She folded her arms across her chest. "Greg... I am fine."

And even as sick as she was of hearing that – especially from her own mouth – Greg put his hands up in surrender, and shrugged as he sat up straighter.

"It's your call."

"Thanks," she afforded him... and then to Crawford: "Do you need me for anything else?"

"Mmm," said Crawford, without looking up. "You can go. Both of you... We'll let you know as soon as we know anything."

But as they were both at the door, the detective spoke again: "Though it's probably best if you leave it to us. We're only telling you and Nick what we can as a courtesy, Sara. And you remember that, Greg."

"Believe me, I've had enough with this case," Sara responded in what she hoped was a reassuring tone.

But it obviously wasn't enough for Crawford, because his very next words were: "Yeah, you say that now..."

She ignored it, but was sure he knew that she'd heard it. Out in the hall, she immediately went to the wall and put her forehead on it. Her hands were shaking again.

She felt Greg touch the side of her arm. "Sara?"

"I really will be okay. I always am."

It sounded like an automated response, and Greg didn't buy it.

"Oh, come on. We're not cops. It's not like these kinda things happen to us much. Give yourself a break. You've been doing this for a long time, and these things aren't exactly common."

"Good thing, too," she said, turning to face him. "But you aren't making it easy."

"Sorry. I can't say I've ever wanted to be anywhere but the hospital when I've been strangled. You're a strange one, you are, Sidle."

She took a false bow. "It's my greatest asset."

"I don't know about that," said Greg. "You'd probably be better off if you took it easy for a while. Be glad you're not Nick; he has a whole inquiry ahead of him."

She looked over at the other interrogation room. Ecklie and Nick hadn't closed the blinds, and Nick did not look happy. Not that she had expected him to, but even so...

"Poor Nick," was all she said.

"Indeed. But don't worry; he handles things. In the meanwhile... why don't you go? Somewhere... Anywhere but home."

She looked at him with confusion. "Where else would I want to go?"

"Well, after Brass' description of your case today, I'd say a large hotel with a pool and a hot tub. I bet you get the day-off call from Russell tomorrow, too."

"Ah, you spoke too soon, there, Greg."

They both looked over and saw that Russell had come into the hall. His smile was, as usual, very bright, and very reassuring.

"How you feeling, Sara?"

"Better," she offered. "Glad to be alive."

"I should say so," said Russell. He came in for a brief hug. "You had Finn a little worried before you left. Everything else alright?"

Greg flashed her a knowing smile from over Russell's shoulder. Then he turned to follow Crawford, who had just come out of the interrogation room with all his notes assembled, and soon disappeared around the corner.

"Oh... I don't know," she finally said.

They began to walk slowly along the hall in the opposite direction of Greg and Crawford.

"So, business as usual, then, huh?" he remarked.

"Something like that. I've never really come to grips with near-death experiences."

"But this isn't your first one, right?"

"No." She sat down on one of the chairs near them.

And so did he. "Then, is it just the shock of the two in one day deal, then, or...?"

She flashed him a grin, weary but toothy. "You've talked to Brass."

"Well, actually, the little bird told me. Brass talked to Greg, Greg talked to Finn after you almost knocked her over... Finn was telling me about it outside. Something you wanna tell me about this case?"

"Oh, you know how it is... It's just that sometimes the victims' deaths can hit a little close to home."

She didn't have to look over to know that he would get that. He hadn't exactly been the same since almost losing his granddaughter.

"I was a young girl once," she continued, "...and I didn't have the picture perfect American life growing up, but I never had anything like that happen to me. Grissom taught us that we are the victim's last voice, but... sometimes it's a hard role to play."

"But absolutely essential," said Russell, without missing a beat. "And you do it so well. You've brought peace to that girl, Sara. Rather she's alive as we think of it here on Earth or not... she knows what you did for her. Her spirit knows... And that's something you should be proud of."

She did have to look over at him to see what kind of expression he'd be wearing after delivering THAT kind of reassurance. And what was a priceless expression it was... In the good way, rather than the sarcastic one...

She nodded, and they stood back up to continue walking.

"I suppose I'd better call a cab, if I want to get home before my next birthday," she said in lighter conversation. "My car will be evidence for a while, right?"

"And even longer once it's time to fix the windows. But... if I could make a suggestion? Listen to Greg: don't go back home tonight. You don't want to be there on your own after something like this. Bad dreams, noises weirding you out, it's just not pretty... You should find a safe place to go. Stay there for a night or two."

More out of desperation to move along with her night than anything else, she nodded. "Okay. I don't think I can stay awake long enough to sit through a cab ride home, anyway."

"That's the spirit. Here." He reached into his wallet and handed her a twenty dollar bill. "Get yourself something to eat, too. As counter-intuitive as it sounds, I don't advise an empty stomach at a time like this, either."

She accepted it with a gracious smile, and he set off. "Thanks!" she called after him.

"No problem!" He spun around and kept walking backwards. "And, uh... do take the day off tomorrow. Just don't tell Greg I mentioned it before you did."

She shook her head playfully, and waved after him with the shaky hand that held the twenty. She looked down at it after he was gone, and rubbed her thumb on one of its creases.

A safe place... A safe place... Maybe just one the smaller cafes down the road...

But as she decided to go for that, she turned right into Nick.

"Whoa!" he exclaimed.

She jumped back a little, and caught herself on the wall. "Geez... Don't do that to me!"

"Sorry," he apologized. "I was just... I wanted to make sure you're okay."

"If one more person asks me that, I-"

"-Alright, alright. Forgive me," he interrupted. "Really."

For some reason she couldn't quite put her finger on, he looked kind of sad. She squinted at his face in the low lighting of the lab, where the lights still hadn't come on. He looked away and scratched the back of his head.

"Something wrong?" she tried. "I mean... besides the obvious?"

"Oh, no," he said. "The obvious is enough, don't you think?"

She smiled at what she was sure was supposed to be his wit. "I do. But you look a little down."

He blinked a few times, and gripped his hips tightly with each hand. "I just get weary, you know? Like you..."

"Like all of us," she amended."I know..."

He paused for another second, and looked out the window for most of it. His mouth opened and closed a few times before he spoke again. Like he was trying to find some words to say...

"Hey, you wanna go and eat something?" he finally asked. Or burst out, really... "I swear, I'll take you right back to your house afterwards. You've gotta be tired, but I'm just hungry. And you probably need to eat, too, so... whad'da ya say?"

As he finished, a feeling of relief brushed through her. "Oh, God, Nick, I'm so glad you asked. Let's go for it. One of the cafes down the road would be great. My treat. Or, well, Russell's... He just gave me a twenty."

"Please, Sara. They take dinner dates seriously where I live."

He offered her his arm, and she took it.

"If they ever found out I let the lady pay, I'd never hear the end of it."

"It'll be our secret, then," she whispered.

He jutted his lower lip out thoughtfully, and nodded. "Sounds like a good time to me."

She felt much better waking with Nick down to the small line of cafes. Her hands stopped shaking, and she didn't have to worry exactly about where she was headed; he was doing the leading. There was bound to be something light and easy to eat in one of those small restaurants. And, if the way he pulled her against him when she shivered from the cold was any indication, Nick would be good company for winding down with.


	3. A Good Night's Sleep

**This is all meaty character development. I do have answers for the questions posed in the last two chapters, but this is a foundation-builder. I enjoy this type of scenario; it's easy for me to imagine the two of them in it. Actually, the later seasons made it really easy for me to imagine, really... Particularly in season fifteen, they just seem like such a team... And they worked together more in that last season. I'm so pissed George Eads isn't coming back for the finale... but at least his character's in a good place, and the more and more information they reveal about it, it looks so much more and more likely that Sara will be, too. Therefore, I can always enjoy CSI. And that's what I care about most!**

* * *

Where they ended up could only be described as "cozy". It wasn't a word she really cared for, but there just wasn't any other for the job. She doubted anyone in a small town would disagree with that description, but she was absolutely sure that anyone in Las Vegas would jump on board with it. She thought of Catherine, in particular; she had always liked the quieter side underneath her professional duties when Sara had known her. Much like Nick used to be... Although getting older and more jaded after his incidents with the Gordons... and just shouldering more around in his life, in general... seemed to have dulled some of that.

And she often felt exactly the opposite. Thinking about the day past had been another reminder that she felt far less gung ho than she used to. Although she hadn't nearly died quite as much as the man on whose arm she was, she thought overall that she was much less fiery. And though she was sure some would have called that a drawback, she didn't think so, so much... Being able to appreciate the environment they had just stepped into was a small thing she could have taken for granted before. And if she had been able think through the just-now-dulling headache, she could have probably named several bigger things, as well. Like that her hands had stopped shaking...

"What's your pleasure?" she heard in a low voice, thick with southern twang from beside her. "You like the window seats? This place has a good gimmick with blankets on the floor, and tables with beanbag chairs. Anything like that sound good to to you, there?"

She flicked her eyebrows up, and sighed contentedly with a gaze around the room. There was a far corner with a lowly-lit lamp sitting beside it, and nothing but moonlight through the large window it was by. She guessed nobody was sitting there because it was by the kitchen. She smiled to herself mischievously; she'd always kind of thought it was an interesting place to sit at any restaurant.

She pointed to it hopefully. "There?"

"Don't ask ME," he replied. "This is your night."

She blinked twice at the pillar they were by before he strode through the other customers to get to the table.

"Don't we have to order?" she asked, when her mind caught up with her body.

"We press the button on the wall," he answered. "Somebody comes to us like a maid."

She giggled quietly, but it must not have been lost on him. He was smiling, both rows of bright teeth shining through that beard.

Beard...? How long had THAT been there...?

He must have known where she wanted to sit: right in front of the window. He pulled that chair out for her, and spun around once to his own chair like he was pulling a dance move. He seemed awfully cheerful when he sat down and she got a good look at his face. Even without the tooth-wide grin, the laugh lines she hadn't seen much of lately were in full bloom tonight.

"What's got you so cheery, Nicky?" she asked.

He shrugged his shoulders and sighed. "I dunno. I'm just... Things are good here, for me. You know?" He jammed down on the button with the side of his fist as emphasis.

But she shook her head. "I can't say that I do. Were you looking for a date, or something?"

"Not since you said 'yes'," he replied, balancing on his elbows and rubbing his hands together.

She bit her bottom lip. "I didn't say 'yes' to a date," she tried.

"Sure you did," he exclaimed quietly. "We just didn't call it that."

She decided not to remind him that, actually, he had. Which meant that she had, too... Said 'yes', that is...

She looked down at the table, cheeks turned up and fingers tapping lightly on the table. Such a beautifully colored table, too...

"Is this where you take all your girls?" she flirted.

"Oh, no," he said. "Only the ones who matter to me."

She leaned her head to the side. "Yeah? And how many is that?"

"Oh, the usual. Two or three, somethin' like that. I lost count after my last date."

"And how did that go?"

"Fantastic! She went home with me."

She squeezed her lips together to keep from laughing. "I see. And was she there the next morning?"

"Nope." He didn't seem too bothered by it. "That wasn't the deal."

A waitress approached then, with a rather bright smile of her own, and a notebook and pen in hand. "Hi," she greeted. "My name is Sandy. I'll be your server this evening. Can I start you off with something to drink?"

She flashed Nick a brighter grin, Sara thought. How deflating...

And then... "I'll have some tea, please. Unsweetened, with a lemon wedge in it." She had rattled that off rather quickly... and she looked down at the table with a light frown while Nick put his order in for some water.

"I'll be right back with that, then!"

Yep. That had definitely been a brighter smile.

"Just water, there, cowboy?"

"I'm trying to wind down. It isn't as cool to get drunk as it used to be."

She hoped her next question would sound light, but it didn't come out quite like she had aimed for it to. "Not like the coffee shop waitresses, huh?"

He must not have been bothered. If he was, he didn't show it. "Yeah, that's one of them. She's, uh... talented... But she's a little slutty; you would not believe the kinda things she did for me."

He scratched the back of his head nervously. She giggled again.

"Why? Are you an ass man?"

"Somethin' like that, yeah."

She nodded once, and looked out the window. It was strange to think how long she'd been here, and yet she was sure she'd never seen the city from that angle... It was a strange place for a coffee shop, situated on the far end of the thirteenth floor of a business plaza. She wondered how Nick had found it. Given the nature of their last topic, she chose not to ask.

"How long has this place been here?" she tried instead.

"Oh, a while, now. I think they added it just before Warrick died. It used to be a book shop. You can still see some of the books and the shelves here." He pointed to one on the other side of the room. "See?"

She leaned on one of her hands, and stared at the books. Trying to read one of the titles from where she was... The lighting sucked, all of a sudden.

"That's correct," came the voice of their waitress. "I first started working here when I was seventeen. This was my first job."

Sara readjusted herself, and accepted her tea with a polite enough expression.

"Our boss was a wonderful guy; his name was Hoss, believe it or not. He was extremely helpful with all the student employees' school schedules."

Behind his water that he was taking a drink of, Nick flashed her a knowing look, and then turned back to the waitress.

"He came to our graduation, too. He was really broken up when they decided to transfer the bookshop out of town. Anyway... did you need a few more minutes to order?"

"I'm good for now, yeah," said Nick. "Sara?"

"Oh! I haven't even looked at my menu yet," she half-answered, half-realized. "Yeah, a few minutes sounds good."

"Alrighty, then. Press the button when you're ready for me."

As she left, Sara opened up her menu and watched from behind it. But as the girl disappeared around the counter, Sara's question was cut off by Nick's mumbled: "Mm hmm."

She couldn't help the smile, even though she tried. "What?"

"I just wouldn't be surprised if she was sleeping with the old boss."

"Should you be worried?"

"No, I'm clean. Been cleared by my doctor, and all that. No worries for me."

"Good to know." And her eyes scrolled across the menu, her cheeks getting that strange pain that they sometimes did when one was still smiling long after her mind had found it funny.

For a few moments, they said nothing. She'd later come to think of it as a comfortable silence... or perhaps just him nicely letting her study her menu. They had a lot of choices there; she wanted to eat so much, all of a sudden... And so much of what was on the menu was good, even for a vegetarian. She decided against appetizers to save on the money, but she went with the tofu substituted chicken salad sandwich. Nick, in typical fashion, got just a straight hamburger. He dictated such to the waitress so animatedly...

"And that'll be $12.92," said the waitress, afterwards.

As Nick looked over at her, there was an odd surge of energy through her body. And when it reached her mind, an idea began to form...

"Oh! Nick, I forgot to give you those twenty dollars from Greg!"

She reached into her purse and scrambled around for a moment. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Nick's previously-building blush fading. By the time she had handed him the twenty from Russell, he was his usual color, and he turned it over to the waitress with an expression Sara could just barely call passably formal. As the girl left to get the change, Nick turned to her. She was surprised to feel that she was not smiling. And neither was he; his face was very intense, actually.

He leaned over and whispered very simply, "Thank you."

But it had a more profound impact on her. Her hand beneath the table shook a little on her lap. She swallowed a building dryness in her throat, and cleared it before welcoming him.

"No, really," he said. "Thank you so very much, Sara."

"I told you," she sighed, feeling tired. "You're welcome very much, Nick."

* * *

It was a bizarre evening, all around. They left the cafe almost forty-five minutes later. Las Vegas was no less busy, but it was much easier to navigate. Something she knew they both believed, because one of their first conversations together... way back when she'd first come to Vegas... had been how much harder it was for them to spot the signs and follow the road in the daytime. The darkness added some perspective on the details they needed to use, and the ones they needed to discard. Of course, with Grissom anywhere near, it had taken on a philosophical approach. She learned, then, that Nick had a talent for personal subtlety; he had made some rather likable looks at their rambling supervisor-of-the-day during the preachy speech that followed. Of course... she agreed with it, but it hadn't been the part that stuck out in her mind any of the times she'd remembered it, so much as her other colleague's brief glares and prominent blinks...

She took a deep breath in the cool, night air, and wrapped both arms around Nick's one.

"Comfortable?" he asked.

"Yeah." And she didn't know what else to say. But she took it as a good sign he didn't do anything to disconnect her from him.

"Anywhere else within walking distance you'd like to go, ma'am?"

She laughed once at his chivalrous tour guide impression. Then she yawned, and felt a single shudder go through her from the cold she then noticed.

"No, thanks, good sir."

"Then back to the lab for the ride home?"

She stopped. Actually, for a moment, everything just stopped...

She looked down at the lab; it was very visible from where they stood at the bottom of the plaza. But it looked such a long way away... Parked out in front of it, her own car was glistening in the moon's light, all the processing on it seeming to be over with. Or at least, halted for a while... It seemed, from that angle, a lot more content to be where it was than she did. Surrounded by other cars... If it was alive, she was certain it would be happy.

And somewhere on the other side of it, Nick's downsized personal vehicle was also there, sandwiched between hers and Morgan's. For a moment, she imagined a TV show: Cars of the Crime Lab. It made her smile, and she poked the inside of her lips with her tongue.

But it wouldn't be the same as what her night was shaping up to be. Even in the cold that was around, she had shuddered or shook very little. Her hands were steady... and their grip on Nick's forearm was rather tight. She was standing very solidly, and had walked everywhere they'd gone very comfortably.

He was still looking at her for an answer. He appeared to be as undisturbed where he was as she felt, even with the inevitable IA inquiry coming up. There was a confident expression on his face. What she could see of it behind that beard, anyway... But if she told him to walk her back to the lot at the lab, she would be climbing into her car and riding home. And though it wasn't that her home was an uncomfortable place, it wasn't where she wanted to be. If she went there, she'd be surrounded by pictures. Pictures of her and her friends, her and her mother, her and Grissom's old dog... and her and Grissom, himself.

 _Why haven't I taken those down?_ she wondered for a moment or so.

But she knew. And she knew it was why she was not looking forward to the idea of going back home by herself. There were reminders of other people who had loved her in those pictures.

But some some of them included who she was already with... And he didn't seem to have any interest in shaking her off. She wondered if he would even have thought of it that way... And he had the perfect excuse if he wanted to, didn't he? What a day it had been...

She looked down at her feet for a second, and then up at her patient escort. "Actually... I know it's kind of late notice, but... can I come and stay with you for the night? I really... REALLY don't want to go home right now. Bad day, you know?" She grinned playfully. "And if you don't have any other dirty dates planned for the evening..."

"Any OTHER dirty dates?" He pretended to straighten a shirt collar on his coat, but he was turning red again. "Why, Sara, does that mean you'll be my first dirty date?"

She didn't even bother with the joke. "So, I can come?"

"Sure! Right to bed. I nest comfortably there."

She smacked his chest very loosely. But she returned her head to its position from after he had saved her, and her tone softened a few degrees when she thanked him.

And so did his, she noticed, with his answer: "You're welcome."

The husky sound he made when he talked like that created such a warm feeling in the back of her head. The calm she had lost over the day finally came back; normally, it didn't take so long after a shift ended, but, hey: she'd take it, if she could get it.

Nick didn't live so far from the lab. Considerably closer than he had most of the time she'd known him. It was probably a five minute walk at regular speeds to his large apartment, versus the three or four it would have taken to turn and go back to the lab. But they enjoyed their walk, instead; it was a very beautiful night, even with all that had gone before in it, and it made for a pleasant saunter along the sides of the streets. By the time they reached his building, she thought it had warmed up a bit outside.

That was, until they got inside. There, she felt cold to the bone until she was upstairs and settled into his living room with a large blanket around her. It was a big room, with a wrap around couch that some part of her had always liked. She couldn't help smirking a little at his idea of decoration; primarily, because there wasn't much. A nice rug adorned the floor in front of the couch, and another one underneath the coffee table. There was a snow globe on it that caught her attention, glittering in the small rays of light coming through the closer curtains on the big window to her side. She picked it up carefully and examined it from all sides.

"That's my aunt's," Nick explained when he sat down beside her, and handed her one of the hot chocolate mugs. "She sent that to me for my forty-fifth birthday. Two years ago, holy crap. And she says it cost a lot. My grandpa covered part of it..."

She laughed at the quick succession in which he had added "holy" and "crap" to the end of that sentence, and gave the snow globe another turn over. The small flakes settled into it again, highlighting the small Santa Claus and reindeer arrangement. There was also a little house with its downstairs windows painted yellow to give off the illusion of a light shining through them.

"It's beautiful..."

"Yeah. I'm very fond of it. Hence why it's out on my table..."

And she laughed again. She hadn't laughed so much in a long time... Not long, drawn out laughs... But short bursts of sudden happiness at the words of another. It was another comfortable feeling she was determined she would hold onto.

She accepted the hot chocolate, and took a drink from it. "You mean, you don't put all the decorations you own out?"

He leaned back on the couch's back, and also took a sip from his own hot chocolate. "Well... I don't have a whole lot of 'em, but... I kinda want to get more." His bright eyes roamed over the room for a minute or so. "I think I need a woman's help with that," he eventually added.

"I've got some time," she offered without thinking. "Soon, I mean... If... I've got some time to help you soon, if you're interested, is what I mean."

"Oh, very." He took another sip, this time with a mischievous look on his face. "I had several motivations for inviting you over, you know. I was just hoping you'd offer!"

Another laugh from her. And she exhaled a breath she hadn't known she was holding quite happily. After another sip from her hot chocolate, she leaned forward and put it on the coffee table.

By the time she sat back, his arm had mysteriously found its way to rest on the couch back behind her. She turned her eyes upward first, and then sideways at him.

"You know me so well, I should think you could have just asked."

"Mm hmm, I sure should, by now."

She brushed her index finger across her lips, and looked away. "What was your real motivation? For letting me stay with you, I mean?"

"What else? The great Sidle, herself."

But she didn't laugh at that. "No, I mean really."

He set his mug down next to hers. "It really wasn't complicated, Sara. I wanted someone to be with, too. And... well, you've had a rough day. At least once in my presence... I can't say I want to make it up to you because it wasn't my fault, but... I did want to make sure that you're alright. Besides..."

And this time, his arm from behind her had found its way over to her shoulder. She looked over at it, but did not flinch away, anymore than he had when she'd put her head down on him outside the coffee shop plaza. His tone turned teasing.

"...I've got a long inquiry to face at work for saving your life. It was totally worth it, but I figure the pleasure of your company is good pay off for it."

"It was totally worth it, huh?" she giggled. "I'm glad you think so."

"Mmm..."

He paused for a moment as if he were considering something. In a brief moment, the tension level in Sara went up like a gust of wind. She watched his face go through some bizarre expressions and twitches, and waited as patiently as she could.

But not patiently enough. "What, Nick?"

He grinned at her. "Whoa, there, Sara. You just had me wonderin' why you really wanted to come here."

"My long day isn't enough for you?" She poked his shoulder playfully.

And he jutted his lower lip out as if he were thinking again. "I suppose," he said. "I have to know, though: what else is there?"

Her smile faded just a little bit. "What else would I need?"

"A reason," he answered without a beat lost. "You're tough, Sara. Real tough... And you've been through worse than this. Why is tonight different?"

She shrugged. "Would you rather I go?"

"No. I'd just..." He stopped. And when he spoke again, his voice was just the smallest bit whiny. "Come on, I told you mine...!"

She laughed so hard she threw her head back. It suddenly didn't seem hard to imagine him bringing home the coffee waitresses... He didn't seem to appreciate her outburst, though. In spite of his chivalrous handling of said displeasure...

"Well, there is that," she said, calming down. "But it probably is more than I thought."

But how could she answer that? Why WAS she there? Because he'd brushed with death more than anyone she knew, and would understand why it had been so shocking and unnerving? Because he was always a good friend, anyway? Because he'd been so great to her after she'd survived the whole Miniature Killer thing...?

Or was it because her hands hadn't shaken at all whenever she'd been with him since getting off her shift? Or that she felt relaxed, and figured she could sleep some with his help? Or maybe because he had been the one to save her? Or because he seemed so solid, and reliable...?

If she was honest, there was probably only one reason: because safety was important, and so was sleep. That was the only reason she could conclude for why she was where she was, at that moment. She had needed to find a safe place to go, or she would have been a wreck. She wouldn't tell him that part; he'd understand enough that her day had taken her past death twice, and she wanted some company because of that. He probably already guessed what a mess she'd be on her own right now, anyway. That was probably why he was pressing the issue.

 _Well, that, and he told me his..._ she thought to herself in amusement.

So she cleared her throat, and answered fast enough that she wouldn't catch herself being honest. "I just needed to feel safe. I'll get out of your hair soon."

"Didn't I tell you not to worry about it?"

"You've told me a lot of things, Nick. Everyone has, actually..."

"Yes, but haven't ya learned it yet? I'm special."

She shook her head. "You sure are."

Her teeth chattered a little. She tried to keep it in by pressing her jaw together, but it came out.

And Nick was not fooled. "Want another blanket?"

She felt like a housewife in a movie, or one of those down-to-earth, real-life-based sitcoms. She accepted his blanket off the back of the couch. She accepted his eventual offer for a glass of wine, and very fine wine, at that. She watched a little something on TV with him. When she was still cold, she made no bones about accepting the extra heat from his body. Sometime after eleven, she accepted something else when her eyes flashed up at his brightly lit clock: she was going to fall asleep with him. It was just going to happen.

And somewhere between actually laying her head down on his chest, and resting her hand down on his stomach, she decided that was okay. At least enough so that she could go to sleep and wake up tomorrow morning.. So she closed her eyes, and took one last deep breath. The rumbling in his chest of his husky voice wishing her a good night's sleep in a low whisper was the last thing she remembered hearing.


	4. Supervisor Stokes

When she next awoke, the sun still hadn't quite come up. It was brighter out, but the light was fleeting. Mostly masked by the darkness that lingered from the night before... But as much as she had always liked that time of day, she preferred to see it when she was just coming into it. Waking up to it usually meant that she had woken up from an unpleasant dream. And the one she was waking up from now was an old one she hadn't had in a long time.

In it, she was taken back to the desperate time that Nick had been six feet under, alive, in a glass box. And while everyone else on the CSI team of old had been running around looking for ways to find him, she had had this feeling like she always knew where he was. It was just that nobody in the dream would stop to listen to her... So eventually, she would always go out and find him, herself. And each time she did, he always asked her to leave with him. She never got to answer, but she always felt like she was on the edge of doing so, just before she would wake up from it.

Far and away, the most disturbing part about it at the time had always been how then-uncharacteristically angry he always behaved. Unlike in the real life experience... where he had been too scared to walk outside for a couple of weeks or more... in this dream, he had taken on the same battle-hardened demeanor right away as he had eventually gathered in their real lives. As she sat up from where she was lying against him and looked back down at him, she could see that some of it was still there, even in sleep. It wasn't that he looked angry, chest rising and falling with his steady breathing... But there was just something about his position: alert, and ready, and able to spring back to consciousness as soon as he might need to. He had recently complained about his back aching, at times. Suddenly, she wondered if his stiff sleeping had to do with it...

She moved off the couch as she started to shiver again. It was no longer cold, but she was still shaken. It had been longer since she'd had that dream than it had since she'd thought of her unceremonious arrival at the Las Vegas Crime Lab, several years earlier. And the anniversary of the events that caused it had just passed... Nobody in the lab had acknowledged it, and she guessed that was for the best, but she had never quite forgotten it. It had bothered her, even more so than her own near-death experience with Natalie Davis... She turned her head away from looking at him as the memories of seeing him in the hospital after it was gone came back into her head. The pitiful lip, she had decided to call it... That was what he had been wearing almost every time she'd seen him after that. He'd used to use it to flirt with her, then, suddenly, it had started to feel uncomfortable for them both...

She stood up and wandered into the kitchen. Surely he had some tea, or something else warm hidden in the cupboards. She didn't have to look long to find some, but she hesitated to do anything with it. She doubted he would have a problem with her making some; he did curl up with her on his living room couch... but she still wasn't sure if she wanted to actually drink it, or just follow the formalities of looking for comfort. And after a few moments of internal debate, she decided not to, with a fervent toss of the honey-peach tea bag down onto the counter. She folded her arms across herself... a gesture she was finding that she did a lot more lately... and went back into the living room.

It really was a pretty place. The decoration was sparse, but the color scheme was a little more than just the neutrality she had recently felt her own home had been painted with. That had been one of the reasons they'd picked it, her and Grissom... It was nice and adaptable... and she still valued that. But it had become a bit of a mental battle after he had used that word, "adaptable" in his announcement of their separation. To describe one of his motives for doing so... She glared at the arm rest on one of Nick's chairs, as if it were its fault that her husband had left her...

But as her mind caught up with her reason, she rocked noiselessly back and forth in the chair's comfort, and watched Nick readjust subconsciously to her sudden absence. Trying to reconcile the events of the day she'd just come through was not as easy as remembering not to blame a chair for a divorce, but she tried. And tried...

It hadn't been the first near death experience. Or the first time she'd gone to Nick for a wind down... But it was the second time since Grissom had left her. And during that first one – Basderic's attempt on her – it had been mostly Nick to the rescue, as well. It had been his idea to trap Basderic with the wire. His idea to loop Crawford in...

 _Oh, yeah..._ she thought suddenly. _I should get Detective C a card, or something, shouldn't I..._

But it had worked. Despite her initial doubts, it had worked... She smiled, and raised her eyes from the carpet to Nick's sleeping figure across the room. He was such a good man; he had never failed to be there for her. Whenever she would let him be... Had never failed to boost her spirit whenever she'd needed it, and often times without knowing how much she had... He had probably been tired, too – if the comfortable rhythm of his breathing was any indicator – and he hadn't had to invite her over, or even out to feed her, in the first place. But he had.

And she never had to wonder if he felt the same way; the only thing every version of her own rescue story had in common was that Nick had been relentless in the search for her. And it was a good sign, she thought, that they had come to expect such things of each other when trying times came. She doubted he had ever considered asking her to leave with him. As much as she doubted she would go if he did; she was pretty sure she was no more ready to run away with an injured man than to hold together a marriage. Obviously...

But still, as she climbed back onto the couch with him – realizing he might find it offensive if she wasn't there when he woke up – she did thank her lucky stars above that someone out there had chosen to lead Nicholas Stokes into her life. She had found him, and he had found her. What a way to build a bond... And it was enough that she still felt comfortable enough to go back to sleep that she was able to do exactly that.

* * *

Getting to work was a bit of a trial. She had woken up much warmer than she'd felt since before her last case had begun, and not too long after her mini-break in sleep before that. So she was NOT in the best of moods with the world around when she had to get up and move.

Nick was the only exception. Again... She could not manage, no matter how much she wanted to cuss out everything from the kitchen sink handle to the taxi cab's uncooperative door, to frown in his direction or harbor an angry feeling. Perhaps it was because he talked a lot, about things that didn't really matter a whole lot, in the same charming way that many men she could think of did... Maybe it was because they flirted over breakfast. But whatever it was, it kept her together long enough to brave the chilly morning air, and the somewhat wearying thought of returning to studies of the dead.

She showered at CSI, and thought of the stories he'd told long after he was done telling them. There was a particular one about fishing with his grandpa that had stood out. He'd said he hadn't gone fishing in a while, and never really thought about it next to the complications of his day-to-day, but that there was something relaxing about it out in Texas with his family. For a moment, she had been tempted to ask if she could ever go to visit them with him. It sounded lovely...

After cleaning up for the day, she stopped to brush her hair by the sink. Finn came by, and looked at her in the mirror as if she had just revealed a pair of eyes in the back of her head.

Sara smiled good naturedly. "Yeah?"

"Just checking you out," cracked Finn. "Wanted to make sure you're doing better."

"Much, thanks," said Sara. "I, uh... spent the night calming down. It's all a part of the job, sometimes. I should be used to it by now."

"Yeah?" teased Finn. "And Nick?"

She halted in one brush. "Yes?"

"Him, too, right? I heard about what happened to him. From Greg... That must've been rough."

Sara released a wistful sigh. "Uh huh."

Finn gave her shoulder a hard pat. "You two can't be doing that. Almost getting killed like that... We need you around here."

For some reason, that really annoyed Sara. She stopped again in her hair brushing, and glared at the back of Finn's shoulder in the mirror on the sink. She hoped her answer sounded less acidic out loud than it did in her head.

"I understand. Case loads, and all that... I'll be sure to pass that along."

"Not for the case loads," said Finn. She slammed her locker door shut, and hiked her bag up over her shoulder. "For the fun of you both. So be careful out there. And don't bring it up to Nick. He's your acting supervisor today."

This caught Sara by a truly genuine surprise. "What?" she asked, spinning around to look at Finn before she left the locker room completely.

"Yeah. Russell and I have been up all night. And Greg's been working with Crawford. You'll be with Nick, Morgan, and Brass today. Good luck. The rest of us are going home."

"They cleared Nick for the shooting? I thought that you couldn't act as supervisor if you were on the docket for an IA investigation."

Finn flicked her eyebrows up. "Hoping for a chance to reign on high for the day?"

Her smile was playful enough, but again, Sara felt annoyed. "I just wanted to make sure everything was okay," she said.

"Yeah, I know what you mean," said Finn. "But don't worry. Ecklie says they're basically doing this as a formality, now. We're still a priority to IA. No court in the land was ever going to convict Nick. It was one of the cleanest shoots since that kid with the gun took Russell hostage... and Nick's intentions were obviously good. You'll see what I mean when you examine the camera evidence. It actually caught some good shots of the guy who was in your car."

Sara let another relieving sigh out. "Good. Thanks, Finn."

"Don't thank me, alone!" She hoisted her bag up a little higher on her shoulder, and turned to leave the room. "It was a team effort!"

"Yeah..." Sara said to herself, quietly so in the sudden solitude. "A team effort..."

* * *

When he waltzed into his old office, he found Morgan where Russell should be.

"What's up?" she asked lightly. "No shirt troubles today?"

He inclined his head forward in mock chastising. "All good. Just lookin' for Russell."

"He already left, Supervisor Stokes. I'm supposed to give you these."

She extended a hand with two clipboards to him, and he took them between his strong, dark fingers from her light and edge-less ones. "Thank you very much," he offered absentmindedly, and began to look through them. "These our reports on what all went down yesterday?"

"Last night, actually," said Morgan. "Yesterday's are already done. That's what Hodges and I ended up doing till about two o'clock this morning."

He looked up suddenly, and grinned devilishly at her. "You sure you're up to a shift today? I need y'all on all fronts. And it's only about nine o'clock in the morning, now."

But she seemed ready for this. She folded her arms across her chest and flashed him the most Ecklie-like look he had ever seen anyone who wasn't actually Ecklie use. "I wasn't out any later than you were. I left the same restaurant you and Sara were cooling off in."

He raised his eyebrows. "Is that so? Why didn't you say 'hi'?"

"I had just gotten there about the time you left. And it looked like a very private conversation."

"Oh, just the typical," he said dismissively. "I imagine you were doing the same thing out there, yourself?"

"Something like that." She unfolded her arms, and leaned back in Russell's chair. "I was actually just texting Greg about the info on Sara's part in the case. She looked pretty shaken up. And Russell said she was just holding it together when he last saw her, so... I was trying to volunteer for the extra help." She smiled. "And, you know, the extra money."

He chuckled, and flipped back the page on the clipboard. "Never hurts, right? But don't worry, she's fine." And she was; he had seen to that, personally, and it gave him an odd feeling of satisfaction. His voice dropped as the feeling swelled throughout the rest of him. "She's fine..."

Morgan scratched the side of her neck. "Good. Because she's going to need to be for Doc Robbin's autopsy findings. They've done another round on the girl Sara found, and finally got an identity on her. From the fingerprints they were able to reconstruct..."

"Oh, good!" exclaimed Nick, enthusiastically. "That's a start. Who is it?" He scanned over the papers on both clipboards for a minute. "I don't see it on here."

Yeah," continued Morgan. "Doc asked for you two, specifically. He says it's someone you'll both want to see. I don't know what that means..."

Nick sighed. That didn't sound good... And suddenly, his enthusiasm was almost totally gone... "Me, either..."

He whipped his phone out of his pocket, and pulled up Sara's name on the contact list. There was a message from his mom he had to store away, first... "Lemme get a message sent to her to meet us there. We'll go get this all sorted out. Just the three of us..."

Morgan stood up with a joking salute. "Yes, sir."

He leaned against the door frame and laughed. "Get on down there. I'm gonna go see your dad for my dailies."

* * *

He found Ecklie by the break room, digging around under the cabinets for coffee. And after answering that message from his mom, he rapped his knuckles on the table where the coffee mug was.

"Nick," stated Ecklie. "Good. You've got those reports. Then you already know what's up. Listen, I know you've got a lot on your plate today, but I'm gonna need you to..."

For a moment, his voice faded into nothingness. His rambling kind of began to blend with itself, and the only thing Nick could hear from the sound of his talking was the hazy outline of his self-narrated dialogue. It took the mild pain he was feeling in the center of his chest and stomach, and moved a part of it up to his head. He raised one hand and rubbed at his temple...

"Can you do that?" was the next clear thing he heard from Ecklie.

"Yeah," he replied automatically. "I can. I just need to know when to show for the IA questions. So I can pass the case to Sara for a bit."

For a second or two, Ecklie did not look so happy about this proposition. "I suppose that'll have to do..." he said, seemingly more to himself than to Nick. "Um... I'll call you when it's time for that. IA are clearing out a large time block. Even if you're out in the field, they'll be patient. Just come when you get my message. We're having it in my office, not the interrogation room."

Nick sighed. If they weren't even going to hold it in interrogation, then there was pretty much no chance of this being a problem for him. He nodded in answer to Ecklie's instructions, and watched the sheriff's dramatic exit from the corner of his weary eye. Maybe there would be time to check up on his family at home, if the case went well. And maybe... if it went better, still... there would be a chance to get some approval for sudden, emergency time off to help them deal with everything that was going on at their end.

But the buzzing sound that came from his pocket, where his hand was still limply hanging onto the edges of his phone case, was a reminder from Sara to get back to work. In the form of a text that he had kinda hoped was his mother's reply...

But her attitude improvement was clear, and brought a smile out of him. And so he headed off to meet Sara and Morgan – his two ladies for the day – to get the findings on Doc's autopsy follow-up, and get the case that stood between him and his time with his family over with.


	5. A Pipsqueak and a Crime Scene

He never made it to the morgue, and neither did the aforementioned ladies. On his way, he was informed of an equipment malfunction in the materials lab by a pimply-faced young guy with large glasses, and two rather large front teeth. For however long he stared the only word he could manage to drag up in his mind to describe him was "pipsqueak". And the maintenance wore no name tags...

"It's not a dangerous malfunction," Pip was saying. "Just a delaying one. Can you write me a ticket for it?"

Arms folded across his chest, and deceptive southern glare in place like nobody's business, Nick inclined his head back towards his former office, snickering to himself as he turned to go that way. But in the middle of the ticket preparation, the news came in.

"Nicky?"

It was Brass. Very much the businessman as always, and very weary looking...

"Hey, Jim, what's up?" Nick asked, fastening the ticket to its clipboard and turning it over to Pip. "Get my lab running as soon as you can, Pip."

"Oh, it's–"

"Uh huh. Thank you."

Brass nodded after the eager young maintainer, but his expression was grim when he looked back at Nick. "We've got a homicide. A middle-aged-looking guy found dead on the floor of his suburban house. Neighbor called it in. Couldn't stand the smell."

Nick sighed, and leaned against the chair on his palms. "Yeah. I was hoping there wouldn't be any of that..."

"Sure. Me, too. But that's why we're here, isn't it?"

As he disappeared around the corner, and Nick reached for his phone to message Sara, he couldn't help wishing that Brass had kept that particular opinion to himself...

* * *

"So, some suburban residents smell something weird... and they, what, go and peek in a neighbor's window?"

Up front, Nick and Sara exchanged sideways glances at Morgan's rookie-sounding question from the back.

"Don't you ever investigate anything out of the ordinary?" Nick answered with a smile.

"Yeah. All the time. It's... how I make my living."

"Then, it sounds pretty legitimate to me," said Sara, grin reflected in the window.

She didn't look as enthusiastically tolerant as she had when they'd left home that morning. HIS home, he meant... But she did look like she was getting by. Her hand was on her head, and her elbow propped up against the windowsill on the department car. She was humming along with whatever garbage was on the radio that he hadn't adjusted, and there was the slightest twinge of a smile still hanging at the corners of her lips from her answer to Morgan's dumb question.

But that faded quickly when they arrived at the scene. As it usually did when the realization came to them that they would, again, be investigating the circumstances that lead to somebody's death... The doors to their car slammed behind them, and Brass climbed out of the one ahead of them with an assigned officer for the day. Neither of them looked too excited, either...

The crowd split on their way up the stairs. The scene was taped off by the officer Brass was relieving, but Nick registered the smell long before the friendly wave of the departing cop. It was pretty strong, even from the sidewalk... and he wondered how it had taken so long for someone to call it in.

That became pretty apparent from the inside. It wasn't just the smell of a decomposing body. The sheer number of alcohol bottles definitely contributed. As did the rotting food and unashamedly-smeared blood on the furniture. Some of it looked like it could have been there for years. He winced against the unpleasantness of it, and Sara coughed into her arm. Morgan's eyes widened, and she blinked purposefully at the sight in disbelief.

"There is no way this guy wasn't single," was all she said.

"10-4. But I highly doubt that's what killed him," said Nick.

"Yeah, that was probably the sheer lack of personal hygiene," Sara sputtered. "Look, Nick, I know it's against department policy, but could we open a window? I want to live longer than this guy did, and we'd have to go all the way back to the department to get safety equipment–"

"–I'm with you," replied Nick. "Just don't tell anyone my eyes are watering. It'd make me sound bad if someone took it the wrong way."

She grinned momentarily. "I wouldn't think of it." And ran for the windows...

Accompanied by Morgan, they both had pretty much every window in the house open by the time they were done. He, in the meanwhile, gave the room a once over with his flashlight. While it was pretty clear there was a lot of evidence to collect, he wasn't exactly sure it was the kind of evidence they were looking for.

His feet carried him one step at a time, slowly forward until he was over by the couch. The victim's body was positioned on his back, staring straight up at the ceiling with all his limbs splayed. One hand was wrapped around what Nick didn't doubt was the last bottle of alcohol in the place. His first picture, and great place to swab for DNA, and dust for prints.

"Okay. So... now that the air is flowing again..."

It was Sara. She knelt down by him and the body, and leaned over his shoulder to look at what he was doing. "Find anything?"

"Just the basics. You girls sure covered a lot of ground in just a few seconds..."

"Well, when you have the motivation..." she teased.

"Mmm. Can't argue with that. Where's Morgan?" he asked.

"She's upstairs. She's looking at the bathroom. He seems to have done... a LOT of projectile vomiting up there."

"Nice," he joked. "Why don't you go ahead and start on the perimeter, then."

"Sure thing. Supervisor..."

As she rose to her feet, her face was all smile. And she glanced back over her shoulder before disappearing through the front door with her kit. He scratched the back of his neck and rose to his own feet, to see what else might be hiding in plain sight. Surely, in this mess, there was something... Somewhere...

* * *

Although the front yard was bare, the back yard through her for a loop. As she rounded the corner of the house, she was faced with the surprising sight of children's play equipment. She stopped where she was, and let her arms go limp, the kit banging the side of her leg lightly as she did. And above the slide on the end of the jungle gym? More blood...

She sighed, and decided to go and look into that first, as it was the most visible evidence. But while she sprayed it down and collected some of it via swab, she started to think that it was kind of old. Not old enough to be non-visible, obviously... But old enough for the time factor to be worth consideration. Any number of childhood accidents could have put it there.

As she leaned over the edge of the gym, she was briefly temped to use the slide to get down. But as she looked around to make sure nobody was watching her, something caught her eye in the sandbox, glinting in the sunlight. Deciding to take the slide anyway, she went to photograph and retrieve it from its grainy resting place, shielding it from the light with her hand to get a better look at it.

"What the hell...?" she muttered to herself.

It was a Rollex watch. And a pristine-looking one, at that. Neither blemished nor faded... She couldn't help raising her eyebrows a little bit at it while she dumped it into the evidence bag from her kit. Either a multi-thousand dollar watch had taken a wrong turn somewhere in the course of its inanimate life, or someone with a lot of money was really lacking in brains.

She stood up, and looked around at the forlorn, abandoned appearance of the yard. It made her feel almost as much so... The wind blew softly, but still loudly enough to make a slight rushing noise. The yard hadn't been properly kept. The only reason the grass didn't grow taller was because it was burned, and thin. Only around the edges of the fence was there any indication of vegetation... And, as she stepped up on the wooden picnic table, she could see that there were no other fences in the yard. Something had been very wrong, there...

The sound of a creak broke her reverie. Then, without further warning, the table snapped from under her. She gave a short shriek, and landed in the middle of a pile of wooden planks.

"Ah..." she groaned for a moment, and sat up with her hands clasped around her knee. "Bitch..."

* * *

From upstairs, the sound of a wooden clank faintly reached Nick and Morgan's ears. They exchanged a short glance, but Morgan didn't seem to think much of it. She went right back to work, anyway...

But Nick edged over from the banister he was dusting to the window to peek out of it. Sara was standing in the middle of some wooden planks scattered around her. She looked a little confused, and she gave her knee a little shake. Then she limped over to her kit, and went digging in it for some other tools like nothing had happened. He couldn't help laughing; so it had been for as long as he'd known her. Going on fourteen years, now...

"Hey, Nick?"

He turned from his thoughts, and gazed over at the tiny thing she held in her fingers.

After a moment, he gave up. "What is it?"

"It's a diamond. Or, well, probably not a real one. But it looks like a jewelry piece."

"Bag it," he commanded. "We'll take it back, see if we can find anything. Any guess on what it might have come from? 'Cause I wouldn't know. Being such an inexperienced individual with jewelry..."

"You mean, a man?" she teased.

"Oh, ha, ha," he mocked. "But, yeah, I suppose you could say that."

She grinned a little wider at the corner of the floor she was photographing. "I don't know, either. It looks like it came from something very small..."

"So, what, like a ring?"

"Yeah. Or..." she paused, thoughtfully. "Or an earring."

"An earring... I suppose anything's possible. But I doubt it's connected to our case. A diamond earring is probably not a man's."

"So, you don't think he could have had any female company here?"

Nick squinted out the window again. Sara must have found what she was looking for, because she was gone... "I don't think I could ask a hooker to take money from this guy if he was buying the hooker for me."

She laughed at that, and stuffed whatever she had found in the corner into a bag. "Looks like at least one hooker didn't have your standards. I've got semen."

"A hand doesn't count," he joked. "They just do what their owners do."

"Guess we'll find out at the lab, then," returned Morgan. "How's Sara doing?"

He snapped the lid back over his camera lens. "How should I know?"

"Well, you keep looking out the window at her..."

He raised his eyebrows automatically. And then realized how thankful he was that he'd been looking away from her when he did. "I just want to make sure everyone comes back to the lab in one piece."

"Still worried about her, huh?"

"Yeah..."

Morgan clicked the lid of her kit shut. "Well, you've been with her a long time..."

"We've all been together... Or, well, you know what I mean."

"I do."

She stopped, and bit her lip. Like she wasn't sure she wanted to say what was on her mind...

"What?"

"Well... Sometimes I've wondered... I know it can't always be easy. All the change you've seen here..."

"It's fine," was the answer he always defaulted to.

"Well... Yeah, but... is it? Really...?"

He shrugged, and stepped up to the very top of the stairs. "I've never had a problem with ya. That's what you really wanna know, isn't it?"

Her silence was answer enough. But he couldn't help a slight chuckle.

"Look... I know I've been kinda hard on Russell, and even your dad from time to time–"

She snorted.

And he glared. "–but we're all a team. And like you said, I've seen a lot of different configurations. It's really _not_ always easy... Especially when you take a demotion in the mix..."

"Bet that sucked the most," she remarked, and then took a deep breath. "Well... Then if it's alright with you, I'm going to head back to the lab. See what I can find with what we've got..."

"Alright. Bring Sara with you. Go take a moment or two. I'm gonna stay here and drudge up the rest of this mess."

"Sure. Enjoy the blood swabbing."

He put his hands on his hips, and smiled viciously at her from behind his beard. "And you have fun processing all that vomit."

She gagged a little, but still managed a wave before disappearing down the stairs.

* * *

"David!" called Sara.

He looked over at her from the front steps he was descending. "Oh. Hey, Sara. How's the, uh... case?"

His voice sounded weird... and it took her a moment to realize that that was because he had an old, wooden clothes pin attached to his nose. She knew she'd feel bad for laughing later, but she couldn't help it.

"What did you do?"

"I couldn't take it," he replied defensively. "Just because _your_ nose is readjusted to it..."

"It isn't," she said. "I've just been outside. And I've got some things I need to show Nick..."

"No need," came Morgan's voice. "He's sending us back to the lab."

"Back to the lab?" she repeated. "Why?"

"Process what we've got, see where we're at."

"No way. I'm not going back to the lab yet." She frowned, stubbornly. "This place is a mess, and he can't do all this himself."

Morgan and David looked at each other for a moment, with irritating disbelief all over them.

"Why not?" tried Morgan. "He's done it for years."

"He'll miss something. This is a large scene to cover alone."

"Exactly," said Morgan. "Which is why he'll probably still be here if we hurry up and go. When we get back, it'll be his turn."

She grabbed Sara's hand and started leading her off towards the car. "But–" Sara began to protest.

"Oh, don't worry about it," she interrupted dismissively. "I think he just doesn't want to go back and talk to IA. He'll take his time, believe me. He won't let the case suffer. You've known him longer than I have."

"Not the point..." Sara muttered, before allowing herself to be shoved into the front seat.

But in spite of how much sense Morgan's blunt statements had made, Sara did not look away from the house until they had driven around the block. By then, she was sure, Nick had gone to look over the body with David.


	6. Craziness

"So, I _am_ still pretty sure he was single," Morgan reaffirmed, "but there was sperm in the corner of the upstairs hall. And stranger things have happened, so who knows...?"

"There was sperm in the upstairs hallway?" asked Sara incredulously.

"Yep."

"Wow..." She set the lid of the evidence box aside, and spread the bags out in front of her. "I couldn't expect a hooker to take this man's money to have sex with _me_..."

Morgan stopped unloading her own box, and Sara could see her sideways glance in the corner of her eye. "That's what Nick said."

"Really?" answered Sara through a grin. "Imagine that. Nick and hookers..."

It was clear from the look on her face that that didn't sink in with Morgan quite right. "'Nick and hookers'?" she repeated. "What...?"

"He never told you about Kristi Hopkins?"

Morgan bounced her toe audibly on the floor. "I must've missed that one."

Suddenly, Sara realized what she was talking about. She chewed her lip, and shook her head. "You'll have to ask him about that. It's really not my secret to tell."

"Old memories?" mused Morgan, looking away and reaching for the nearby clipboard.

"Yeah," said Sara. "A lot of them coming up lately..."

"Is that what you did last night? Reminisce?"

As impossible as it was, Sara couldn't help feeling like Morgan was talking about the recurrence of her dream. About finding Nick alone... But before answering it in a rational way, she inhaled a stabilizing breath, and nodded.

"That explains it..." Morgan muttered.

"Explains what?"

"Nothing. Nick was just telling me about some old memories, too. Here." She extended Sara the clipboard. "You'd better do this. You're, like, the second in command."

She accepted the clipboard with a suspicious smile in place. "What kind of old memories?"

"I don't know. Previous team dynamics, I guess."

Sara giggled. "If anyone would be able to describe them, it's Nick."

But Morgan didn't seem as amused. "If you say so. What do we have?"

"Alright," Sara sighed wearily. "It looks like you found the most. Um, there's the vomit samples from upstairs, and the sperm for biological specimens. The diamond in the corner, and the shoe prints on the floor in that empty room. Also, the fingerprints off the hallway walls."

"In blood," Morgan interjected.

"Yes, in blood," confirmed Sara. She wrote it onto the evidence log, and kept going. "Then, there's what Nick found. So far..." She rolled her eyes. "DNA swab from the alcohol bottle in the victim's hand... Lifted fingerprint from that same bottle...

"And then, there's the mostly-lack of evidence from around the perimeter. Very shady, and very good work on the criminal's part. Someone obviously knew what they were doing."

"Which suggests familiarity," affirmed Morgan.

"Usually, yes, it suggests familiarity. But nobody's perfect, even when they're meticulously planning a murder. So, what I've found is a little more blood from the slide in the back yard, a Rollex, and some more shoe prints in the dirt by the window."

She looked up at Morgan for a visual cue.

And Morgan provided one by nodding. "Let's get started."

"Yeah."

But the processing was slowed down a bit by some maintenance work taking place in the materials lab.

"Slight delay, ma'am. I'll be out of your way in a moment."

But she didn't mind as much as she might have otherwise. Except for the slight cracks and sputters made by the tools that reminded her slightly of gun shots, she was quite content with the adorable maintenance man's company. He was a pleasant type, and it didn't stop her from getting to her results.

"So, what made you want to do this?" he asked.

She looked up from the blood sample she was running through a tube. "What? CSI...?"

"Yeah." There was a shaky quality to his voice, high-pitched as it partly sounded. Like he was having trouble mustering up enough confidence to talk to someone else...

"Uhm... I don't know, exactly. I was such a science geek in school, and I guess I wanted to find a career in that. And when this came along..." She shrugged. "I jumped at it. I wanted to help people, too..."

"By finding out how they died?"

She was used to this question. But if she hadn't at least been married to Gil Grissom at _some_ point, she probably still wouldn't have known how to answer that. Or, rather, how to answer it so well...

"We're the victim's last voice. It's our job to speak for them, when no one else can or will."

He didn't seem to know how to answer that. He drilled a couple of nails into the table that was attached to the fiber analysis equipment.

"I know," she offered. "It sounds weird, but..."

"No," he said, after another moment or so. "No, it doesn't sound weird at all. I mean... not _that_ weird..."

She laughed. "You'll get used to it. You'll hear a lot of things like that around here if you stay long."

"I think I will," he said thoughtfully. "I can't think of a better way to have conversations like this. Without being looked at like I'm crazy... Or actually having to touch dead people, that is... That part sounds like a real bummer..."

Again, she couldn't help a laugh. "We don't touch dead people," she promised. "We see them a lot, obviously, but there's no touching them. Usually..."

"'Usually'?" he questioned.

"Well, there _is_ always the odd occasion... For everything you can think of..."

"Like what?" he asked, eyes wide, and frozen in the act of putting his tools away.

"Like I said, anything. Just ask our acting supervisor of the morning. He's a CSI, and he's seen more than most of the cops here have. My first year here, he had a gun held to his face. My second, it happened to him again. _After_ the guy with the gun had hidden in his attic, first..."

"What the hell...? Er... heck...?"

"Oh, don't worry about it," she said half-reassuringly, half-dismissively. "I won't tell your boss that you're using bad language."

He smiled, and gestured towards the lab equipment meekly. "There you go. All set..."

"Thanks. Uh..." But when she turned back to read his name tag, he was gone.

When she spotted him in the hall, he almost looked like he was hurrying. She frowned, and went back to her processing. She didn't think she'd been _that_ bad a conversationalist. He hadn't talked to Morgan at all before she'd gone sprinting from the room...

But she didn't worry about it long. The results were in. And a few moments later, she found herself with Morgan, overlooking the spread of printouts from the various lab machines they had just been using.

"Okay..." began Morgan. "I'm... kind of revising my theory on this guy being single. But, it looks like the other party may still not have been female."

She brandished the only sheet of paper left in her hand. The one she had clearly been waiting to show to Sara for dramatic effect. With half a smile in place, Sara accepted it, and read the results along the top.

Then her eyes widened a little, and she looked up without lifting her head. "The semen you found in the hallway corner was mixed with spit? From a man?"

"Yes," said Morgan. "But it gets weirder. Not the same man as the DNA on the bottle. Or the blood from the walls."

Sara blinked in consideration for a moment... and then reached out to take the report from the bottle fingerprint analysis. She compared it to the prints from the blood she had just processed, herself.

"They match..." she said. "The suicide-ee, or victim, left his prints in the blood on the wall."

"That's right," said Morgan. "Which means..."

"He may not have committed suicide. If he's at all involved in things that would cause his fingerprints to be left in blood–"

"–he may have enemies."

"Or an ene _my._ At least one..." And she stopped and thought, for a moment. Then... "Who threw up?"

"Hmm?" asked Morgan distractedly. "Oh! Same guy with spit in the sperm. Here..."

Sara accepted the next document, and looked it over. "Yeah..." she muttered after a moment. "Yeah, this is who we have to find. Whoever he is, he was probably... intimate with our victim. Or whatever they did... This is the guy we need to find."

"That's great, but we don't have anything to go on for finding him," stated Morgan. "No names came up anywhere during all of this. And some of it's still processing..."

"Well, not all of it. Here's what I've got."

She flopped a folder down in between them. Morgan brushed some of her hair out of the way and opened it.

"Alright, so the blood from the backyard jungle gym..." began Sara. "It's a woman's. And no, there wasn't a name in the system for it."

"Of course not," Morgan droned.

"But, there was some more luck with the diamond," continued Sara. "I ran it through serial check, and found a number etched into it. It's obviously not a real diamond, but it's pretty close... So, I had one of the trainees make a call; it was sold to a store here in Las Vegas, and they aren't far from here. Maybe we–"

"–could find out who!" interrupted Morgan enthusiastically.

"Exactly."

Morgan clapped her hands once, and spun around towards the hall. "I'll get the car!"

Sara squinted after her in a manner of some concern. "How many energy drinks did you have this morning?" she called out.

The jewelry store was a messy-looking place. As they arrived, and Morgan put the car in "Park", a woman behind the large window facing the street was busily brushing dust off of the glass. Sara exchanged a look with her partner, and they exited the vehicle with some very healthy weariness.

"I can't take anymore craziness," Sara said, in a low tone of voice. "This had better go easier than it looks like it will."

"Keep thinking that," Morgan whispered back. "It might actually work for us, somehow..."

And they entered the diamond store, evidence bagged securely in Sara's left hand. The inside was as much of a mess as the outside was. Even though there were a number of people milling around and trying on different kinds of jewelry, the carpets didn't seem to have been vacuumed in weeks. And the lady dusting the window – whom Sara could now see was wearing an actual maid uniform – had a long way to go if she was trying to dust the entire place down. The people behind the sizable counter were smiling at the customers they were talking to in a way that she could only think of as creepy. There were empty spots on the shelves where she guessed that jewelry should have been on display. Nothing was organized or assembled at all. Even some of the jewelry stands by the doors were in pieces...

"Ah!" greeted one of the men behind the counter. "Young ladies...! Marvelous! Marvelous...! Come in, come in."

"Thanks," answered Morgan, with a biting edge in her voice. But part of it was gone after she'd cleared her throat. "We're with the Las Vegas Crime Lab. We'd like to ask a few questions about something you sold here."

The smiles of the employees dimmed a little. But they welcomed the CSIs up to the counter to look at their evidence.

"We found this serial number on it. We traced it to here," explained Sara. "Any idea who it was sold to?"

"No," began the man.

But a woman in a long, purple shawl came around from behind him, and when she spoke, it was with a wispy tone. "Oh, yes..." she half-whispered mysteriously. "I _do_ remember..."

Sara squeezed her fingertips into the palms of her gloves. _I_ said _no more crazies..._ she thought.

"It was a woman," the shawl lady went on. "An older woman, I do believe."

"What kind of an older woman?" pressed Morgan. "One with a lot of money?"

"Oh, no," answered the shawl lady. "No, she said she was spending her life's earnings on it. She wanted to have it for something special."

"Did she say what kind of something special?" questioned Morgan.

"Oh, something to do with a house guest she was very fond of," answered the lady. "Forgive me... but... you said 'the crime lab'? Did something happen to her?"

The more she heard, the sicker Sara felt. It sounded like an old lady's lifetime dream come true may have turned into a nightmare she hadn't survived. She curled up her toes in her shoes, but responded to the store employee's question in as professional a manner as she could.

"We don't know yet. That's part of what we're trying to find out."

"Oh, she was an awfully nice lady," cooed the girl in the shawl. "She certainly made my day."

"How's that?" asked Morgan.

"She asked me if I had anyone special in my life. Said that I was... not to sound immodest, but... 'too pretty' to be alone."

The look on her face told Sara that she was not at all concerned about sounding immodest. And judging by the look on Morgan's, it wasn't fooling her, either.

But it seemed like _everything_ in life was totally lost on the saleswoman. "She wanted to introduce me to her grandson. She said that she thought he would enjoy meeting me."

"Oh, come, now, Clara," spoke up the man who had first greeted them. "We told you that you should have accepted the offer. How often do you get such a chance?"

"She was a stranger, Richard," replied Clara. "I, uhm... I don't like strangers..."

"Well, we don't like criminals," Morgan butted in without another moment's wait. "And we really need to find one before he hurts somebody else. Did the lady ever tell you who she was?"

"Or, maybe, pay for her diamond with a credit card?" tried Sara.

"Oh, no," said Clara. "She used cash. But she did drop something on the way out. I didn't keep it. It was a card with a phone number on it, and a message."

"What kind of message?" wondered Morgan aloud.

"'Help'," Clara stated, simple as if it was the weather.

* * *

"And nobody in that crazy place thought they should call the police!?" exclaimed Morgan for the fifth time. "How often does somebody drop such an obvious message for help?! Oh, I'm going to hurt someone..."

"Shh," hissed Sara. "If anyone hears you saying that, you could be in trouble for misrepresenting the department."

Morgan sighed, but conceded, and gave the bag of dumpster-digging material they were getting out of the car a good, hard tug. It came out into her hands, but quickly thudded against the bumper.

"There..."

Sara reached into her pocket and pulled a hair tie out of it. "Here," she offered. "You've got more hair than I do."

"Thanks," said Morgan uncertainly. "How should I take that?"

"Depends on the guy," Sara said back. "Know any of them that like long hair?"

"Sure. Greg does."

"Oh, him, I know. That's why I keep mine short."

"Really? Does it work?"

"Usually," said Sara, beginning to apply the dumpster gear. "He's been off my ass for a while, anyway..."

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Morgan's lower lip jutting out a little. It reminded her of one of Nick's favorite "thinking" faces.

And a few moments later, they found themselves knee-deep in a row of conjoined dumpsters in the alley way, by the messiest jewelry store in the city of Las Vegas.

"I always hated this," complained Sara, foot going into a bag and coming out covered with moldy cheese. "I used to make the guys do it back when we had more of them."

"Why doesn't that surprise me?" joked Morgan. "I bet they did almost anything you asked."

"I wish," admitted Sara, absentmindedly kicking a box out of the way while her mind wandered back to years past. "I usually had to go through Catherine to get that kind of response."

"'Through Catherine'?" repeated Morgan. "Why?"

"I don't know." She jerked at a smashed cabinet door. "She was prettier than me, I guess."

Suddenly, she stopped and stood up straight, looking right ahead with semi-widened eyes. Had she really just said that? Out loud...?

She glanced over at Morgan, and was quietly thrilled to see that she'd ducked into the dumpster, and was determinedly pushing a large, black trash bag over into the corner. Whether to avoid looking at Sara, or just lost in her job, Sara was not sure. But as a rush of wind hit her on the face, Sara let out a breath of relief. Half relief of the unpleasantly-private confession she had just all but made... and half of the smell lingering in her nostrils.

"I'll smell like this goop for weeks," she bemoaned. "Reminds me of the time Nick and I brought a heavily-decomposing body out of the desert..."

"Bad as the one we found today?"

"Oh, no," was Sara's automatic answer. "No, that one was the worst. But back then, I couldn't get the smell out of my hair. Nick kept teasing me, this guy I'd just met wouldn't even come around me... Greg was nice, though." She laughed once, eyes focused on the street beyond the alley, mind wandering off again in nostalgia. "He told me a real man wouldn't mind..."

Morgan stopped, then. She glanced up at Sara from her squatted position, and crinkled her eyes against the sunlight.

"Did you ever think about trying him out?" she asked.

Sara frowned. "Huh?"

"That's right, ladies, just... I don't know, just keep looking!" came the sudden call of the store manager from the back door of the building. "And if you need anything else, please just let me know!"

"Yeah!" shouted Sara back at him. "Thanks!"

Her enthusiastic wave, no matter how false, seemed to have done the trick. He turned and went back into the store, and left them alone.

"What were you saying, Morgan–"

"–Ah HA!"

The young blonde stood up, and unwrinkled what appeared to be a medium-sized postcard. And written there, in black letters, was the message they were looking for.

Sara exhaled again in relief. "Good job, Morgan."

She climbed out of the dumpster, and turned to offer a hand to help Morgan.

Who took it tightly just as she banged her knee on the side of the dumpster. "Ouch!" she half-shrieked. And then: "Yeah, whatever. Let's go and get this back to the lab, and take a look at our suspect profiles."

"Suspects?" asked Sara.

"Well, yeah," said Morgan. "Anyone here could have done it."

And as much as she doubted it, years of surprise had taught Sara that she could hardly argue with that one...


	7. Suspect

"I want it to be noted somewhere that I came back in on very little sleep."

"So did I, Hodges," said Sara, wearily leaning against the table in the lab. "It's all part of the circle of life. But I'll be sure to mention it to Nick. See if it impresses him any..."

"I couldn't care less if it impresses him or not," dismissed Hodges. "As long as it impresses Russell..."

"Uh huh. Good luck with that... Just tell me about the shoe prints."

The short, dorky-looking lab tech spun on the spot with a cheap-looking flourish and took two plastic sheets off the desk behind him. "Ah. The shoe prints... Quite the find, if I do say so, myself."

"Mm hmm..." Another yawn...

"These prints do match each other. So, whoever was milling around outside was also upstairs, at some point."

"Great," said Sara, fake smile all over her face. She snatched up the papers, and swept from the room with more smoothness than she could ever remember Hodges even faking.

"You're welcome!" he yelled out.

"Huh? Oh, thanks!"

She edged around two other techs from the usual days shifts, and planted herself on the edge of a stool in the break room, where her mug of coffee was still sitting unbothered by the old magazine she had meant to read a couple of weeks ago. Behind her, the steady humming sound of the vending machine, working to cool its liquid inhabitants, caused an extra yawn to escape from her mouth. She grinned at the page she had left the magazine open to; Nick had pointed that humming out to her, back when she'd first come...

"There you are." Morgan entered the room with a doughnut in one hand, and a spreadsheet in the other. "I've got something on the postcard."

Sara leaned on one hand, and flopped the front cover of the magazine closed irritably. "Yeah?"

"The handwriting on this note... Or, well, the glue... It's completely fake."

At that, Sara felt a little more awake. "Fake?"

"Yeah. There is no way any human hand could write this perfectly. Especially not an old woman, like the girl at the jewelry store claimed."

"So, somebody's lied to us..." stated Sara, eyes wandering back to her warm coffee.

Morgan took a bite of her doughnut. "Yeah, but who?" she asked with a mouthful. "The weirdos at the store, or the lady who wrote it?" She swallowed. "And that wouldn't technically be lying to _us_..."

"No," mused Sara. "It would be lying to the weirdos..."

Morgan took another bite. "Exactly. And what benefit could that possibly be for an old lady who paid in full for the diamond?"

"Unless it wasn't an old lady," Sara wondered out loud. "For all we know, one of them planted the note, or came up with the story."

Morgan shrugged, and went for a paper cup across the room to drink down her doughnut with some steam-less coffee; Sara winced when she saw Hodges' name scribbled on the side of it. "Then how did it end up in the dead guy's house?"

"I don't know," replied Sara. "Maybe Nick has something."

"Shall we go and see?" asked Morgan. "We've probably been away long enough."

At this, a rushing fury rose up in Sara's gut. "Why, was there a time quota he told us to meet, or something?" she inquired bitterly.

She realized she almost sounded hateful, but she couldn't help it. She rose to her feet, and rolled her magazine up to fit under her arm, and took the coffee – which she definitely wasn't leaving – before starting down the halls toward the lockers.

Morgan followed, taking twice as many steps for every brusque one of Sara's "I don't think so," she answered carefully. "I think he was just trying to be nice. He said to take a moment or two. Of course, he did also leave me with backhanded vomit duty..."

Sara rolled her eyes. "Oh, I've always hated it when he does that. That falsely chivalrous, southern Texas guy thing... He knows I'd rather be out there on the field."

* * *

"Hey, Nicky."

Brass suddenly appeared at the front door, hands folded in front of him and sweeping the room with his eyes quite thoroughly, for a police captain.

Nick brushed the back of his hand on his forehead. "I think I've got everything" he said. "Is it hot in here?"

"No, it's hot outside, too," said Brass. "And I was just coming to tell you–"

"What's going on here? Grandma...? Grandma?! Are you okay?!"

Nick looked up at the sound of the voice he didn't recognize. A young man was climbing out of a car, and running up the front walk to the door with a panicked look all over his face. The two officers by the porch steps stopped him, and held him just behind the police tape.

"Grandma!" he shouted a few times.

Nick looked over at Brass with his lips pressed together. Here it was: the first family member to be disappointed by a death.

They descended the front steps and came to a stop just shy of the struggling young man, and the police officers who weren't letting him go. "At ease, there, boys," ordered Brass. "Hold him soft, for a second."

Although they appeared to loosen their force, the man they were holding didn't break through. "Where's my grandma?" he repeated.

"I don't know," said Brass with the voice of a negotiator. "Easy, there, son. Easy... We don't know anything about your grandma. We're not here because of her."

That seemed to have done something to calm him down. He relaxed against the arms of the officers, anyway... and brushed some of the sweat away from his face. "Oh... Well, this is her house... What happened?"

"We don't know that, either," Nick interjected. "My name's Nick, and I'm from the crime lab. We got a call from the neighbors today that someone had died here."

"Someone had... died...?" repeated the boy, disbelievingly. "Well, who? If it's not my grandma, then..."

He looked to the door. Then back to Nick and Brass. And then back to the door...

"Hector?"

Although Brass looked over at Nick directly, Nick only returned the edge of his eye. The clues were all over the young man's face; if he turned away now, he might miss them.

"Who's Hector, man? Who's Hector?"

That did it. The boy exhaled a sharp sob, and then stopped fighting against the police entirely. "Hector was my uncle," he cried. "My dad's only brother..." And he went down on his knees.

Nick took his forearms, and sank with the officers to keep him supported. "Your dad...? Where's your dad at? Maybe he can help us find out what happened? Where is he?"

But the boy was not responsive. He brushed his eyes, as if trying to keep the tears at bay, but without any success.

Nick moved his grip from the young man's forearms to his shoulders. "Let's start somewhere else, then. Tell me, what is your name?"

"B-Brandon," answered the boy.

"Brandon. Brandon what? What's yours and your uncle's last names?"

"They're different," Brandon managed to get out. "My uncle had a... different father than... than my father."

"Okay..." affirmed Nick, softly. "Okay. We're gonna get you outta here. We're gonna take you back to the station, alright? You can take a moment to calm down there. And we can answer all the hard questions after that."

Brandon nodded, and allowed himself to be stood up and steered to the police car. Nick sighed watching him go, and rubbed some of the weariness out of one eye.

Brass scratched the back of his neck. "Good work on that one, Nicky. We'll call you when he's ready for the interrogation. Er... questions. I don't think we'll need to put much force into it."

"Yeah," Nick stated offhandedly. "Hey... could I get a ride back to the lab? I didn't think when I sent Sara and Morgan back, I sent 'em with the department car."

Brass chuckled. "And here I was just about to compliment your job as a supervisor..."

"Har, har," was Nick's answer, as he crossed the lawn back to the house to get the evidence still waiting in the living room.

* * *

Sara was not very happy when she and Morgan arrived at the crime scene, and found that nobody else was there. She called Nick back at the lab, and, while Morgan cringed up by the door, exchanged a very terse set of words with their charming co-worker over the phone.

"Hey, hey, hey, take it easy," Nick was saying. "I just got back, alright? I didn't think you were in such a hurry to get back to the stink pit. But while you're there, go ahead and take another once-over on the place. You'll feel better."

"I am going to skin you, Nick Stokes," Sara said back. Her attempt at anger was unconvincing through her barely-withheld giggling.

"Never say something like that to a professional member of law enforcement," he answered jokingly. "I'll be here processing while you're taking another look at the crime scene. And I won't go in to do the questioning until you get here, okay? Promise. I really wanna know what you think of him, anyway..."

"Gee," snapped Sara. "If that's all you want me for..."

"Yeah... Yeah, that's what it is... See you when you get back."

 _Click_. _Beep_. Sara dropped her phone back into her pocket, and bit down on her lip hard. _Alright, be an ass_ , she thought. Then out loud, "Morgan? We're going in."

The smell inside had not subsided very much; Sara still felt like plugging her nose when she first stepped in. The mess was absolutely everywhere. Dried alcohol was all over the floor, and blood all over the floor _and_ walls... Morgan was behind her, hand on her hip and the other one aiming a flashlight.

"It smells awful in here," she said. "There's gotta be more than just a dead body to thank for that."

"Who knows?" asked Sara. "If alcohol, activities leading to sperm, and a bad sense of cleanliness were the norm in here, it could be anything, or any combination of things."

They edged inward, following the way around the steps into the other sitting room. On the love seat, some of Nick's evidence counter markers were stacked up, looking unused and forgotten. Sara eyed them coolly, as if they were at all to blame for her dissatisfaction with their master. Morgan glanced over at them after Sara's light hadn't moved from them for a moment.

"Did Nick mention any place he hadn't looked yet?"

"No. All he said was to give the place another once over."

It was eerily quiet in there. One of those crime scenes in which Sara didn't want to talk much, because it always felt like there was someone else nearby. Waiting just around the corner... But staying quiet felt like an admission of that possibility, at the same time... and it was both dumb to think, and not a comfortable reality to face. But still, Morgan must have been feeling it, too. Or something, anyway; she didn't say anything else while they swept through the next three rooms.

Eventually, they came out through the darker downstairs hallway into the brighter-lit kitchen and dining room area. It seemed clean, at first... but then Sara caught sight of Nick's evidence marker. His one, lone evidence marker, sitting on the edge of the table... But it didn't seem like it belonged there, and this time, she knew right away that Morgan was thinking it, too.

"What, uh... what do you think he bagged from there?"

"I don't know."

Sara realized she was almost whispering just as she finished speaking. In the back of her mind, she wished she had kept a running count of the evidence markers' numbers. One of the quickest and surest ways to check for crime scene tampering was to look for missing numbers in the evidence markers' sequence. It wouldn't work in every crime scene, but she was fairly confident it would work like a charm in a straightforward one like what they were currently on.

"I'm, uh... I'm gonna go and start from step one," she said to Morgan. "Maybe there's something I missed, myself."

"Okay," Morgan whispered back. "I think I'll go peek out the back door."

As she retraced her steps back to the front, Sara could just imagine herself on TV; the mood music would have been quiet and creepy. But her count of the numbers on the evidence markers did not turn up any suggestions of foul play. Everything, from one to twenty-one, was in good standing. All the way up the stairs... But never going into the kitchen...

A shuffling sound reached her ears from behind her. She tried to inhale a substantial amount of air without letting her shoulders rise up. Then she turned... edging her feet around each other to rotate her position at a pace both steady enough to be confident, but slow enough not to challenge her beating heart too much. It suddenly seemed much darker around...

But there was nobody behind her. Just more shuffling noises...

"Morgan?" she tried.

No answer. She wished her feet didn't make so much sound each time one of them hit the floor while walking back out into the upstairs hall.

"Morgan?" she repeated, just a little louder. "Is that you...?"

She reached the top of the stairs, and the light streaming through the window above the toilet, from the bathroom on her left, cast a slight warmth on the side of her face and hair. She was almost afraid to look down the winding staircase; what if she had just given herself away to a stranger in the living room?

But there was nobody at the bottom of the spiraling staircase. At least, not from where she had been looking down. Nobody... but still more shuffling...

 _One more time, Sidle_ , she encouraged herself. _One more..._ "Morgan? Do _not_ try to be cute."

And still, no sound of her partner's voice came back to her. She exhaled quickly, but audibly, and came down the stairs completely, one confident-sounding (if not -feeling) step at a time.

There was nobody down in the front room. She kept biting the end of her tongue in her mouth, willing herself not to say anything else.

 _It's alright_ , she kept telling herself. _There's nobody else here, this time. No guns... No kidnappings... We're fine, Sidle. We're fine..._

It felt like a lifetime, but she eventually found the back door. Open, and blowing both air and sunlight in through it, as Morgan had promised. The shuffling noise seemed to be louder. But she couldn't actually see Morgan from inside the kitchen.

With a momentary closing of her eyes, Sara resigned to reach for her pistol. It was hanging so invitingly in the holster. What if the noise wasn't Morgan? What if it was someone doing something to Morgan? Like... shoveling dirt over her...?

She cringed internally as the pistol's safety mechanism clicked off. It made a sound, but it did not deter the shuffling... Which was coming from right behind that tree... Where had she been, earlier? This did not look like any part of the backyard that she had noticed before...

She pressed her back against the evergreen. It was easy to see that it had been planted manually; the roots were still showing, and it was just tall enough to conceal her position from whoever was doing whatever they were doing on the other side. She closed her eyes against the sweat that suddenly rolled down past them. The wind's blowing sounded even more unsettling...

"Alright," she muttered under her breath to herself.

And then she spun around the edge of the tree – "Freeze!" – and pointed the pistol. Where, she didn't realize, at first...

But a second later, she registered that it was Morgan's terrified face on the other end of it.

"Holy shit!" shouted the other, jumping back away from the gun's end. "Sara, what the hell are you doing?!"

Sara quickly withdrew the aim of her gun, and angled it directly upward. "Oh, God..." she breathed through the sweat. Suddenly, it felt cooling to her, against the wind...

"Are you okay?" asked Morgan, breathing so fast and so hard that it was almost panting. "What's up?"

"Oh... uhm..." She struggled to find an excuse for her behavior, which suddenly seemed extremely irrational. "Nothing. Sorry, Morgan, I just thought... Nothing."

"It didn't seem like nothing to me," countered Morgan. "From the other end of the gun..."

"No, no, that was just a precaution. I thought you were someone else. Sorry..."

"Why? Did you see something?"

"No. I heard this weird noise from upstairs, and I didn't know what it was. It scared the crap out of me. I'm sorry..."

"It was just me digging," said Morgan. She spun back around and indicated the small hole she had just dug from the other side of the evergreen tree.

Sara blinked twice, and looked to her right in discomfort. Well, that was part of what she'd worried was going on outside, anyway...

"It's a good thing I brought my camera. Look at this..."

Sara stepped up to the small hole and looked inside of it. Once the sunlight stopped glinting on what was in it – or her eyes could adjust to that glinting, whichever it was – she could make out what was there. And it looked an awful lot like more jewelry. Buried in a box. All bearing the same logo as the jewelry store they had been in a while ago...


	8. Family Heart

Back at the lab, Nick heaved the boxes of evidence, one at a time, up onto the counter. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the rookie shadowing him staring intently at them, like they were about to explode.

"Take a deep breath, huh?" he said with a half-smile. "The further up you get, the more you'll be doing this. And some evidence sucks, no matter how long you're at it."

"Right," answered the guy. "You're never prepared for every case."

"That's right. I learned that from an old friend here..."

His voice kind of faded. Like a song with no concrete ending... He hated that effect in music, but his smile spread to the other side of his face nonetheless. His hands gripped the sides of the box, and the memory of Grissom left as quickly as it had come. Boy, that was a sudden one...

"Anyway..." he continued. "Before we can begin processing, we have to take a log of what we've got. This notepad, here was the one I took with me to the scene." He gave it a light toss, and it slid until it had halted in front of the trainee. "I counted my evidence markers before I left, and we found a total of twenty-one, between me and the other two ladies out there."

"Yeah...? Ladies...?" He looked suddenly mischievous.

"Yes. Professional ladies," corrected Nick, though he hadn't meant for his tone to come off so harsh... So he softened, and tried again. "Sara Sidle and Morgan Brody, to be specific. You'll probably see them a few times before this case is out. They're real good at this, too."

The rookie nodded, but turned a little red, and redirected his vision to the evidence boxes. "So, what's the logging procedure?"

"These forms." Nick yanked a drawer open underneath the counter's top, and removed a stack of papers attached by adhesive to a cardboard back. "CSI first levels are required to have a witness. You're a trainee, so I'm gonna be yours today. And I'll help you, so don't panic. But this is the most important part of the job, because when we face the criminal's defense, they're going to check our logging integrity. Legally, they can pull video on us, too." He pointed up at one of several cameras around the room. "It's critical that we don't screw this up."

The trainee gave another, solid nod. "Right. Evidence is the name of the game."

Nick smiled again, and put a hand on each hip. "Yep. So get started on the forms, and I'll lay out the evidence. Do NOT remove the actual articles from the bag without some of these."

He took a purple-ish box of latex gloves from the side table behind them, and shook them a couple of times. Eyes looking over an imaginary pair of glasses with warning... The rookie accepted them, and took a pen from his pocket.

"Alright, then... So, what do we got?"

Nick leaned against the counter's edge on his forearm. "You tell me, man. What do the bags say?"

The young man took the first bag from the box, and laid it out with the printing on it upside down. With a nervous chuckle, he corrected it, and then gripped the pen with an iron tightness. Nick's eyes ran from the grip to the evidence, and back again a few times.

"Looks like a... a chunk of some floorboard. With some blood on it...?" As he spoke, he also wrote.

"Very good," complimented Nick. "And you understand the form?"

"Sure," replied the student. "It's all written pretty clear."

At this, Nick was doubly impressed. "And you took the time to read it?"

The kid looked up from where he was hunched over writing, and shrugged. "Don't you have to...?"

Nick jutted his lower lip out. "You've never met Greg Sanders, have you?"

But it was Sara's voice who answered. "Stop knocking on Greg."

They looked over, and there they were: Sara and Morgan, looking tired, and kind of sweaty.

Nick grinned at Sara. "Well, what do you want me to say? Don't you remember how long it took to get him out of that habit?"

"Yes, but he does a good job, now," said Sara.

They strode into the room, and around the table, where they set the box they were carrying to do their own logging.

"I didn't say he didn't," replied Nick defensively. "And what you got there?"

"Jewelry box," said Morgan. "It was buried in the backyard."

Nick blinked a couple of times. "You went digging?"

"I stepped on a loose hole in the back," she explained. "My foot sank a little into it, and so I went to look inside it. I found this..."

Sara did not comment. She sighed, and extracted the other box of gloves. Morgan didn't seem to notice, though. She kept going.

"We looked into the diamond we found. It came from a store owned by some real oddballs. We asked some questions, and found out that an old lady bought it from them. They said that the lady claimed to have saved up for it forever. It was paid in full."

"It's also incredibly close to real," added Sara, eyes down on a clipboard.

The trainee, writing extremely slowly on the forms Nick had given him, looked up. "It was...?"

Sara nodded in his direction. "Yeah. And good work on that call, by the way. We learned a bit more because of it."

"Like what?" asked Nick.

"Like that the girl we talked to was a serious idiot," said Morgan. "She says the old lady left something in the store on her way out. A postcard, with the word 'help' written on it. Or, well, printed on it..."

Nick squinted, and looked up at the ceiling with a bit of a weary sigh. "Did you check with dispatch for a phone call to that effect?"

"I did," answered Sara. "And they had nothing."

Nick pinched the bridge of his nose for a moment. "Then, where we're at is: as far as we know, they could be lying _or_ telling the truth. It could work both ways..."

"Then I say we chase your lead," said Sara. "Unless we find something else implicating the store workers, we'd be better off following up on something more concrete. Someone we _know_ was involved..."

Nick nodded... but had kind of hoped they would've found something, or someone, else.

Nevertheless, he waved Sara forward with two fingers. "Morgan, how would you like to be the witness for our learner, here? And you can work on that jewelry box, too."

She nodded, and flashed a thumbs up. "Got it. Lemme know how it looks with the suspect!"

Her enthusiasm was contagious. Neither Nick nor Sara could resist catching a bit of it. "Understood," Nick chuckled.

But as they turned for the door, they suddenly collided with Hodges. "Whoa!" he shouted. A laptop he was carrying almost fell out of his hands.

"Hodges!" exclaimed Sara. "What are you doing, creeping up behind us?"

He frowned. "I just needed to ask if anyone knew the password for the materials laptop. Russell didn't leave it logged in before he left."

"Oh." Nick reached into his inside shirt pocket, and withdrew a card between two fingers. "This is what you need. Hold that thing still, for a moment."

On the side of the computer's lower body was a small reader for electronic keys. Nick gave his a slide through the reader, and it made a small beep. A series of number prompts would have popped up on the touchscreen, if he hadn't had them all memorized. Well enough to punch them in before they were visible... A bright, generic smiley face welcomed them to the program, and there it was.

"Try to keep that turned on, alright?" requested Nick, slipping the card back into his pocket. "I know we had a breakdown, but we gotta get some progress under our belts, here. Sara?"

"Yeah. Let's go." She grabbed a couple of bagged evidence pieces on her way over to him.

"Hey! Where did you get that?" called Hodges after them.

When they were out of earshot, Nick leaned over towards Sara. "Did you find anything else worthwhile out there?"  
"Nothing newer than what we've got. Why, don't you trust me?" she murmured back.

He stopped, and leaned back a bit. "Ouch. What has that got to do with anything?"

She ran a hand through her hair. "I just wondered. It seemed like you wanted us out of the picture at the crime scene."

That was a trap. And if he answered it now, they would be at blatant odds for the whole case. So he shook his head, and left it at: "That wasn't it."

Perhaps she felt like he was baiting her, too. She didn't say anything about it for the rest of the walk to the interrogation rooms, at least. Which... in part, because he _had_ been baiting her... was something of a disappointment to him.

* * *

"Look, I really don't mean to be a bother... but did anyone find my grandma?"

Nick slid his chair a bit closer to the other side of the table. It scraped loudly, but he barely noticed it from familiarity, anymore. "I'm sorry, man, but we're still looking." Then he indicated Sara, who had settled in with her hands loosely folded on her lap; her observatory thinking stance, he'd always thought... "This is Sara. She's a good friend. She did some looking, too."

Brandon looked at her expectantly, but Sara shook her head. "I'm sorry. I haven't found anything, yet," she answered softly.

Brandon nodded, and brushed his finger on his nose. "I understand..."

For a moment or two, there was just silence. Nick tapped his fingers on the table. Sara kept glancing over at him. Brandon's eyes were down.

"When was the last time you saw your grandma?" he finally asked. _We'll start there..._

"A few days ago," answered the distressed-looking young man. "She had come out to the apartment with my uncle to show me something she'd bought. It was a diamond."

He ducked his head a little bit. Nick sighed, and pressed his lips together. In his side vision, Sara appeared to be saddened, too. But she cleared her throat, and reached into the small field kit they had brought with them.

"Did it, uhm... did it look like this?" And she slid the diamond in the evidence bag to the middle of the table.

Brandon leaned forward and narrowed his eyes at it. "Yes... Yes, that's it. She had been saving up for it since she took me in."

At this, Nick perked up a little. "Took you in?"

"Yes. My parents died when I was about seven or so. Grandma fought to keep me from going into foster care. Grandpa was against it, but she won. I came to live with them." He wiped his eyes a little, and straightened up. Like he was ready to put forth a more dignified impression, all of a sudden... "Story of my life. Nobody wanted me except my grandma..." He sighed.

Sara turned her expression into confusion. "Oh...? What about your uncle? He was living there, too, wasn't he?"

"That's right," affirmed Brandon. "But he wasn't always the most pleasant house guest. He had some problems. You probably found a lot of alcohol there."

"We sure did," said Nick. "And plenty of bodily fluids, too."

Brandon sniffed. Or snorted... One of the two. "Uncle Hector was in some pretty serious denial about his sexuality. He had a wife back in Phoenix, but she ended up leaving him and changing her legal name. After that, he became twice the drunk. And when he was drunk, he let his... other side out to play."

"All over the house, it seemed," Sara interjected.

"That sounds like him. He spent more money on boys and booze than he did bills and family needs. He used to run a pretty successful business, you know: car wash, with a detailing service on the side. It's making money for somebody else, now... But the kind of money he made, he could have taken care of all my grandma's financial problems after grandpa died."

"And where were you during all this? I mean, after you moved out?" said Nick.

"Oh, I didn't leave right away. I used to work with my school's janitor on my weekends, and some days after school. Jason was really nice. I haven't talked to him in a while, but he understood some of my family problems."

Something terrible occurred to Nick. But he couldn't quite bring himself to say it... Luckily, he supposed, Sara hadn't taken quite as much of a liking to their suspect.

Though she still used a delicate tone while posing her question to him... "Did he understand enough to... help you with a murder?"

Brandon frowned. "What? No! No, absolutely not! I would never have done something like that! My grandmother would never have forgiven me! She loved my uncle! And he wasn't exactly my favorite person, but he did some good things for me, too!"

Nick held two hands up. "Alright. Alright... We get it. We really do. But we have to cover all of our options, here, okay? And you wouldn't believe some of the screwed up things we see in this work. Much stranger things than what Sara just said. Calm down a little."

He sighed, and sat back in his chair with his face in his hands. "Please," he sniffled. "Please, just go and look for my grandmother. I'll be here if you have any other questions. I just... I need to know if she's all right or not." And he ducked his head.

Beside him, Sara rubbed her forehead and sighed, before leaning against her elbow, cheek resting on the palm of her hand. Resigned, it appeared, that they wouldn't get anything else, for the time being...

But Nick's eyes were for the tear-stained young man before them. A sight that was becoming increasingly pitiful with each passing moment.

* * *

"Okay. I don't think he's lying..." assessed Sara, after they had left the interrogation room. "I don't think he's telling us everything he knows... but I don't think he's lying about not killing his uncle."

Something like relief went through him. He looked up from the corner of the floor his vision had kind of defaulted to, and just nodded with a measure of peace. As long as she thought so, too... Maybe he would just allow himself this pretty pressing lapse in judgment.

"Unless he was the lead in drama at school..." she allowed.

He chuckled. "I doubt it. But, hey, when he calms down, we can ask him. Look into all that..."

She clicked her tongue. "Yeah. Something like... In the meantime, what's next? Evidence? Or did we ever hear from David about the autopsy?"

"I haven't. You...?"

"Why do you think I was–?"

 _Beep, beep, beep_.

There went the generic text tone. The harsh expression she was delivering – head down, and eyes peering over her nose – disappeared in the sudden flurry of her hair, caused by the hasty switch from glaring at him to the phone in its holder down on her belt. While she busily undid it, he pressed his backside a little harder against the wall; he could feel his phone vibrating, but he wasn't exactly sure it would be David.

"Speak of the devil. Or, the super coroner..." She clicked the screen off on her phone, and hooked it back onto her belt.

His eyes had returned to the floor, where his mind began to run away with him. "Or some combination..." he managed to get out.

Two fingers snapped out of his vision's range. "Nick! Stay with me on this."

He glanced up again, perpetually unbothered by her sudden intervention. "On what...?"

"The case," she answered, incredulously. "I need you to stay with me on the case."

He shook his head, trying to clear the memories of his family that he kept going back to. Hard as it was, he attempted to welcome the return of corpses, and young rookies studying his collected evidence with blond bombshells back into his thoughts. Never exactly an easy process, but considerably less so in light of the recent news...

"All right, then," he said through an exhale. "If you'll stop glaring at me, I'll go."

She did a kind of double take, albeit subdued. "Am I glaring?"

"Sharply," he answered. "But the real question is: are _you_ coming, now?"

He hoped that his step past her came off as a stride. But he was fairly certain that some of the usual muster behind it was lacking. Somehow... Maybe lingering in puddles of resonance, pooling at the bottom of his shoes, and then picking a place on the floor – hard, and cold enough to feel through his soles – to stay wherever it landed.

* * *

The quiet hum of the morgue would persist in her mind long after she'd left it. It had always been that way, even before she had been a week in Las Vegas. And that was about fifteen years ago; she had definitely mastered anticipating it subconsciously, far before she was in the room. But for some reason, going in felt ominous. More so than usual, that was... even with Nick a step or two ahead of her.

"You think anyone else is about to burst out of the other doors, guns blazing?" she asked stupidly.

Wherever Nick's mind was, it returned to the present when he looked over at her, eyebrows raised in question. "I really don't think it's likely, Sara. Not this time, anyway..."

She nodded, and stepped past him as he watched her with an expression of some worry, running her hand through her hair. Which, she was beginning to feel, might need cut a little shorter, still...

"Nick. Sara," greeted David. "There you are..."

"Hey," returned Sara. "We made it."

"You're going to wish you hadn't," said David. "This one's rough."

"Like, what kind of rough?" inquired Sara. "'Suicide' rough, or 'raped with a glass bottle' rough?"

David seemed to mull that one over for a moment. He didn't answer, anyway... as his eyes scanned the body, with his hands folded in front of him. An non-reassuring response, to be sure...

"I don't know about all that," he finally replied. "But rough..."

A bit of a sinking feeling settled in Sara's stomach. "I see... What do we got?"

"Well, cause of death was a mystery, at first," began Super Dave. "I had thought alcohol poisoning, but then I found a low BAC."

Nick seemed to come to life at this. "You found a _low_ BAC? In the guy who was lying in booze bottles?"

"Yeah... But then I kind of guessed at a stab wound. Underneath his filthy clothes, and the decomposition, he had some pretty nasty ones."

Sara scratched her head, and rolled her vision over the body.

"But, it was this that killed him," continued David. He reached to the items table beside him, and held up a large, bagged hair dryer. "Somebody bashed his brains literally all the way in. The marks match perfectly."

He set it back on the table, and gave it a little slide so that it came to a stop by Sara. She looked down at it with a bit of pity. Like the hair dryer had cared at all that somebody had been using its ancient-looking frame to take a man's life... She took it from the table rather carefully. Between her two hands' fingers, she gave it a little squeeze. What a terrible way to die, even for a man like their victim was looking to have been...

"And, uh..." pressed David, in that professional-yet-obligatory sensitive tone that he and Doc had come to have trained themselves to use, when they could see that a case was affecting its investigator(s). "There was... something else, too. I removed _this_... from the inside of his throat."

Sara's mouth fell open when the next item to appear from behind David was a hair-curling iron. "You found this in the victim's throat?"

"Yes."

She took it in its bag from him with very little hesitation.

"His clothes are in the bags over there, as well. I didn't see anything that looked strange on the outside. The decomp smelled terrible, but it was a lot less poignant without the accompanying body." His lips pursed, and his eyes scrunched up in an expression of disgust.

Behind her, Nick took the victim's personal effects, and held them up to the dim light, as if looking for anything else weird that would be visible. A flash of irritation bubbled up in Sara; it wasn't like he would be able to find anything admissible in court just by looking.

But her emotion didn't boil over that time. She turned back to Dave. "Give me his ten card. If you could get it...?"

"There's not much," he admitted. "But here: there's a little something to help you start eliminating with."

"Thanks."

She started to go for Nick, but then David's voice changed so drastically, she had to stop again and look back at him. "Do you think, in life, he had ever hoped for a better death than this?"

She knew he was hoping that she would pull a Grissom, and drop a thoughtful, comforting answer for him. But for the life of her, she couldn't think of one, at the moment. Not with the way the hair dryer and the curling iron – two items she had just used that morning – felt like they were burning her hands through the evidence bags...


	9. Desperation

On their way back to the whole "evidence processing" thing, they somehow ended up in one of the break rooms. She was not exactly sure how... And Nick's every movement seemed to be annoying her more. But she had felt shaky on the inside, when he'd suggested rather shortly that they split up, and go in different directions to cover more ground.

"How about some coffee, instead?" she'd been quick enough to recommend.

Of course, he hadn't been opposed to that. And so they were there, each in their own little world, perched on stools around the uncomfortable table of the particular break room they had gone to. Nick was on his phone, tapping letters on the touch screen keyboard furiously with one thumb. Sara was watching him go, and managing to catch little words based on which letters she could see highlighting with every tap. She squinted when one of them was "grandpa..."

"Trying to read me?" he finally asked in his low, husky voice.

She looked up suddenly, as if she'd been caught with a hand in a cookie jar. "What? Oh... No, I just–"

He chuckled, and waved the hand that had just replaced his phone in a pocket dismissively. "It's okay, Sara. It's just a family issue, is all."

She leaned forward on one hand, and affixed him with a stony expression. "Family matters, huh? On the job?"

"A pressing one," he qualified, and took a short sip of his coffee. "They happen, at times."

She narrowed her eyes down at her coffee, but somehow could not bring herself to direct such a look right at him. "They do. But, as I recall, it's a supervisor's job, more than usual, to put such things on hold."

"I'll try to remember that the next time you get a text from Grissom, or your mother, and you're covering shift," he shot back. A timed shrug matched perfectly with an expression of confusion. Almost as if he wasn't totally serious...

About a thousand different responses flew through her white hot head. She squeezed her cup of coffee between her fingers, and wriggled her toes within her shoes as furiously as his thumb had been texting. If she answered with anything even close to that level of honesty, there would definitely be war.

She set her cup down after a sip, that she hoped would be calming, of coffee. "I've never covered shift," she muttered, in a dangerous tone of voice.

"Oh?" He had folded his arms, and leaned back against the very edge of the table behind him.

"Oh," she repeated. "Never, not once. Nobody slipped me a supervisor's card under the table."

"Mm. And nobody's ever come to you under the table to clean up their messes before, either?"

She sighed, and rubbed one eye. "That's not a common occurrence, Nick. There aren't too many people who even know you have it."

"Yeah, but my point is–"

It all seemed to reach critical mass, all at once. Being with him felt like giving up. Being against him was making her nervous. His hard gaze and body position set her on edge. And she crumbled underneath the feeling.

"I'm sorry I brought it up," she interrupted him. And it took some work, but she was able to soften her speech. "I'm sorry. I am. You can deal with your family matters. It's safe with me. I swear."

Whatever likely-cutting thing he'd been about to say, he let it die. He nodded, and averted his eyes. His exhale was deflating. "But you're right: it can wait. I'll tell them I'm at work. It's not like they don't understand that."

She had looked away from him, too. Until she heard this... There was such a downcast in the way he spoke that she looked back. There were times when a person could look at another, and see things that were always there, but not usually apparent. Like how tired they could be, or how heavy the unseen weights on their shoulders could get. Nick was full flush with both. Dark circles the size of carry-on luggage pieces under his eyes were not from a lack of sleep, she knew _that_. And the sudden sag to his shoulders was not from being professionally over-burdened. He had covered shifts before, many times, that were a lot harder than their current one.

"Nick...?" she started to say.

He sighed, and lifted his eyes to hers.

"Hey!"

It was Morgan. She came in looking much more enthusiastic than Sara thought she probably should. At least, from the short glance she shot in her direction...

"What's up, Morgan?" he greeted her with. "Did you find something exciting, 'cause you're having way too much fun."

"We found a buried treasure. And then a literal one..." she teased at him.

Sara's sense of irritation switched. Or rather, its target... "What was it? We have enough riddles outside of the lab."

Morgan was not dampened by the obvious underlying impatience. "Check this out."

They followed her back to the materials lab they had left her in with their trainee, dragging along their own evidence from David's autopsy. The trainee in question seemed to have acquired another buddy.

"Hey, Pip!" exclaimed Nick, with an excitement in his tone that Sara could tell was forced. "Thanks for your work on the lab! We're back up and going."

The young maintenance man that she had been talking to earlier was bent over the evidence, along with their rookie. At Nick's blatant show of acknowledgment, he blushed a bit of a strange, purple-ish color. Sara inclined her head to the side, and darted her eyes from the wary Pip to the weary Nick. Whose phone had vibrated in his chest pocket, lighting the screen up...

"Oh," answered Pip. "Hi. Yeah, it's all good, sir."

"I see that," said Nick. And he eyed the rest of the situation in the room before him. "Are we all having a party?"

"No, sir," Morgan reassured. "We're just wrapping up what we've got."

"I see that, too. And what have we got, then, ma'am?"

Sara rolled her eyes, and stepped up to stand beside him. Pip and the rookie split ways to give her room. She nodded at them with a smile that she hopped was friendly. Morgan started with the evidence she was clearly the most ecstatic about.

"Alright, Sara, this is the deal with the jewelry: there are fingerprints all over some – just some – of these pieces. We dusted every single one of them from top to bottom, sometimes twice. We got everything off of them. And guess what we found..."

She turned, and rotated the laptop that Nick had cleaned up for Hodges earlier to show them the results on the screen.

"There were two sets of prints on them. One set? Matches our unknown female from the house."

Sara leaned in... And there it was: the fingerprints from the jewelry box read under the same category on the electronic evidence log's filing system. She regarded it with a bit of suspicion, and then reached out to touch the highlighted words, "Additional Evidence", on the screen. Up popped the secondary findings.

"Clara?" she said, amazement flooding her. "Clara Jaffel?"

"Yeah," replied Morgan. "That's our crazy jewelry store lady, Nick."

He leaned forward, palms pressed on the table, eyes squinted at the computer screen... "Wait a second... I know her."

Sara's head all but turned itself to him. "What?"

He nodded. "Yeah, I do... I know her."

"How?" she pressed, incredulously.

"Back when..." –he cleared his throat– "...when Kristi Hopkins was still alive, I bought a necklace from that girl, during a crazy, and brief, period of time that I thought about asking her to, you know... leave the whole 'prostitution' thing behind, and–"

"–be with you."

Sara blinked at him, a couple of times. She wasn't sure if she was angry about that or not; he _had_ tried to help Kristi... And that was unrelated to their current situation, anyway. But still... What a time to drop such a bomb to someone who had watched him go through all that... All the whining he'd done afterwards suddenly felt obnoxious, rather than sympathetic.

"Yeah," he confirmed. "Something like that..." Then he waved at Morgan with a couple of loose fingers. "Was there anything else in the box?"

Morgan tried to erase what seemed like curiosity from her expression. None too completely, Sara thought. But she remembered letting the name "Kristi Hopkins" slip earlier. She grimaced at the side of Nick's shoulder, and silently prayed that Morgan would not press him – or Sara, herself, for that matter – about it later.

"Uhm... No. It's an old box. We know that the diamonds traced back to the store. And those that didn't, didn't even trace anywhere in the country. The box is covered, pretty thoroughly. But, we did find more of Clara in the crime scene. Have a look at this: she was sleeping with somebody there."

The next virtual results folder to flash across the screen caused a flash of sickness through Sara's stomach, as well.

"Nick, you did find female DNA contribution in the kitchen? On the table?" asked Morgan, for clarification.

"That's right..." he said, warily.

"Well, it was her's. She slept with somebody on that kitchen table. Vigorously..."

And so she had. Because, mixed in with her natural vaginal lubrication, there was a little blood. Nick looked a little green. Much like Pip had suddenly turned...

Morgan shook her head a little, and swiped across the screen to remove the details. "That's whose blood was on the floor trim, also. She spent a lot of time there, I'm guessing. But she wasn't the only one. This next sample is a bit of saliva. It was by the kitchen sink, right?"

Nick nodded, but seemed unwilling to risk prompting further details by speaking, in light of the last revelation.

"Well, there's no sperm in it. But it is from a male, and we do have a name, this time."

She pressed on a small square in the lower left corner of the screen, and it brought up one of the most unattractive-looking young men Sara had ever seen. He was blond, but his hair was disheveled and greasy-looking.

"'Martin Trem'?" she read.

"That's right," the rookie chimed in. "And I _do_ know him, actually. He's the younger brother of an old college buddy of mine."

Sara felt Nick's eyes move to her, but she didn't look back. "Was he gay?" she asked of their student.

"He always said not, but we never believed him," the student answered. "He seemed too into the football team in the locker room..."

"Well, where can we find him?" demanded Nick. "Or do you know?"

"I don't, but I can make a few calls. Probably track him down."

"You do that, then. Go. Right now."

Sara jumped internally a little at the harshness with which Nick spoke. The rookie jumped externally. But he did as he was told, and jogged off down the hallway. From her own memories of learning when she was younger, Sara imagined he was feeling moderately relieved to be out of the spotlight, for a moment or two...

Nick, however, immediately returned to Morgan. "Okay, Morgan, lay off the bombshells, for a moment or two, huh? Give me something to really go on."

She looked to her right in thought. "No bombshells? Okay. How about this...?"

* * *

Sara was still hearing Morgan's voice in her mind as they were literally following her instructions. "Go back to the house, and pass it by about three blocks. You'll find an alley there. Drive down it, and you'll find a specific kind of door..."

"And we're supposed to be looking for what?" Nick was saying, as she came back to the reality she was presently in with him.

"The door that the wood splinters came from," she explained. "The splinters came from an old door that was sold to a plastic vendor back in 1996."

In spite of himself, he was still smiling. "Serial check."

"No. The only company to use doors with that type of wood in the last decade..."

He was not deterred. "Whatever. It was still a great find, on her part."

He leaned back a little against the driver's seat, and let his head rest on it. At the red light they were waiting for, the headlights of the cars following the street they wanted to cross cast a light on the windshield. And in the windshield, she could see their reflections. She started with herself, perhaps a bit selfishly...

In the fading light of the afternoon, she could see that she looked worn out. Her hair had let its slight curl go in the stress from the discovery of the numerous and disgusting things that Nick's evidence had turned up. She shuddered to think what else they would find, once Morgan finished with the rest of his things. But, both oddly and childishly enough, the first thing she wondered was if it would make her look anymore haggard... Her eyes glazed over, as she trailed her vision from unkempt hair and pale cheeks to dirty shirt and ruffled jacket collar.

"Don't stress, Sara. You look as sharp as always," came the voice of Nick beside her.

She whipped her head over, and saw that he was watching her with the windshield, too.

"I saw you checking yourself out," he followed, in response to her quizzical look. "No worries, there."

And then his phone buzzed again. Several times... But he ignored it.

"Are you gonna get that?" she asked in a cracked voice. "It's been going off for about a half-hour, now."

"I'll get it after shift." He shrugged. "I know it's not Jim, or anything like that..."

She felt a weird weakness fall into her. Not an emotional one, so much as a physical one. The last echos of his voice seemed to haunt the interior of the car. That was _not_ the last thing she wanted to hear him say.

"What if it was your family?" she tried.

But he answered with another shrug.

"What if it was an old friend, like Catherine?"

He looked over, perhaps at some of the bitterness she hadn't meant to let out, but still didn't speak with more than a shake of his head.

The weakness was replaced by a desperation. "What if it's Russell? Or Finn? Or Greg...? Or–"

But his answer – although verbal, and enough to relieve the frustration – brought back the weak sensation through its quieter and calming tone. "I'll look at it when we get there."

She exhaled sharply, and tried to mimic him by leaning back on her own seat. The leather was surprisingly cool on her back, as it met up with her again. Rather through her side vision, or the continued reflection on the windshield, she was not sure. But she saw him staring at her with a concern that she normally would have been annoyed further by.

But in the midst of that moment, it caused her the much-preferable sensation of relief. "I'm sorry."

"It's okay," he forgave without a beat. "But you're starting to worry me a little, Sara. What's going on?"

She grinned, and looked at him with raised eyebrows. "You didn't tell me what's going on with you. Why should I tell you?"

He shrugged again, this time with a reckless lack of care. "That's a very good question. But I bet whatever it is, it's not a family issue. And I mean that in the best possible way!" he hastened to add.

She tried to push the uprising of discomfort away; that had kind of stung. But she found, when she nodded, and watched him in the windshield, that it was easy. The look of him was aided by the sudden movement of the car, as the light turned green, and his foot pressed the pedal.

She took another deep breath, and let it out. "Nick... You don't have to tell me anything you don't want to, alright? I was just pissed, I guess."

"Yeah, I noticed that. But I'd like not to be fighting with you. You're... well, you. You're the only one left from the team we both had. Care to tell me what I did so wrong?"

She rolled her head from side to side a couple of times. Eyes closed... taking in the cooling feeling of the seat... "Nothing serious. Really..."

Shadows rose up over the car. The interior's lighting suddenly seemed brighter in the surrounding darkness. She couldn't see him in the glass anymore when she opened her eyes. She had to turn and look right at him. But his eyes were on the road.

"Something, though, right?" he inquired.

She threw a hand up, and felt herself lightening a little. "You sound like your old self."

He applied the brakes. And she realized, suddenly, that they were in the alley way. She un-clicked her seat belt.

"Is that a bad thing?" he tried asking, beginning to get out, himself.

"Not by itself, no," she said in the act of sliding out her door.

She didn't see him, but she guessed that he exited the vehicle much more quickly than she had, because the sound of the other door opening and closing came to her ears a few moments before those of her own echoed in the dimly lit alley. But she would have no more questions; they were beginning to make her squirm.

So it was fortunate that he didn't ask anymore. He brought her a flashlight. Instructed a gun check... Made sure he had the car's keys before locking the doors... Edged up to the side of the alley... and set off along the wall.

Close behind him, she could hear the sounds of the city beyond them much more clearly than she normally wanted to. It was usually something she noticed; just not something she was fond of concentrating on during a case. The rest of the time, it was more of a comfort than anything...

Their breathing was quiet. Their footsteps, not much less so... The sidling – and she thought of that as no pun – along the dirty, old brick wall took them right to their intended target. But it sounded like they might not have been alone.

Nick looked back at her before going on. He leaned right up next to her; she could smell some kind of fancy, probably expensive cologne rolling off of him, like he'd been wearing that morning. His lips right by her ears tickled her cheek a bit, with his beard.

"Stay behind me," he whispered.

As he backed away, she turned her eyes up and nodded once, lightly. He seemed satisfied, at least enough to turn and press into the door. It came open with little resistance; Sara could see why as she followed him through it: there were splinters similar to their evidence, indicating some heavy damage already on it.

As she stepped into the room, she ground her teeth at the extra noise their feet made on the floors inside the old place. Lying around all over were the signs of the previous business conducted in the building; plastic bits in indiscernible chunks were piled randomly across the floor, and an endless onslaught of old paper work was visible in the still-shining sun of the day's winding down. Nick didn't seem to have taken much of this in, though, through his one-focus goal. He approached the corner at the doorway to the room steadily, and without looking away.

The shock that they had wanted to avoid came before they'd turned that corner, though. Just as she had noticed that she had gone close enough to all but walk into the back of him, he had thrown back an arm, and taken her with as he'd flung himself against the wall, weapon poised up.

"Good God!" shouted the voice of the other person in the room. "What are you doing coming in through the back!?"

Sara sighed, half in relief, and half in irritation. "Brass..." she breathed.

"Oh, my God, Jim!" shouted Nick. "Why didn't you tell me you were here!?"

"I didn't think you'd be able to miss the cop car outside. You never told me you were going to come in the back way."

Nick stood up straight from where he had leaned against the wall. "That's how we found our way here. Morgan traced the splinters from the wood to this place."

Brass shook his head. "I'm not even going to ask how that one happened. Forensics has just come so far since I came back to detective-hood..."

"Timing of the business, nature of the doors kind of thing," offered Sara, in spite of the captain's assertions for unawareness about it.

"Sure," he accepted. "That part, we still know works well."

"Oh, yeah," said Nick. "Can't beat the classics." He exchanged a grin with Sara, and sent a wink to her before addressing Brass again. "Find anything while you were waiting for us?"

"Well, actually, I did. Didn't you get my text message?"

Sara's grin widened. She felt better, she knew, because it had just been Brass in the room, instead of a rabid homeless person, or a murderer in the middle of the crime. But knowing that Nick hadn't checked his phone like he'd claimed to have done was just as sweet.

And he knew it, too. "I, uh... Er... No. I didn't."

Brass closed his eyes, and sighed. "You're falling down on the job, Stokes. I found something you'll be very interested in. Something for your department."

Nick's lingering smile disappeared entirely. Rather for the grim anticipation, or the shot taken at his supervisory skills, Sara was not sure. She gripped his arm, hands wrapped around his upper arm in the hope that it would come off as a supportive move. He did not brush her off or shake her away, or make any sign that he didn't like it, as he hadn't done when he'd walked her all over the streets the night before. It was in that united position that Brass laid it out for them.

"We've got another dead body. An older lady... I saw her lying on the stairs as soon as I could get the front door open."

Nick glanced thoughtfully over at Sara. "Wait a second... That means somebody else forced open the back door."

He turned to look back at it, and she with him. The wind blowing through it gave off an ominous effect. She inhaled some of the fresh air coming through it to kill the negative association, and embraced the cold feeling that followed. That shiver could be her excuse for tightening her grip.


	10. Will You?

"Well... I think we found Brandon's grandmother," Nick said.

Brass had disappeared outside to chatter with the other officers, on the pretense of standing guard over the scene. Sara was knelt down by the foot of the stairs that the body was laying across. Nick watched her dig around in her pocket for a sealed packet of swabs. She was back to being angry, if her deliberately looking anywhere but at him was any indicator.

She didn't have a problem with answering him, though. "Yeah. Do you want to be the one to tell him?"

He shrugged, and his eyes fell. "I don't think so, but if I don't..."

She turned her head enough to show the very edges of her eyes to him. "He might stop playing nice?"

He kicked a large chunk of plaster away from his foot. "Yep. And we can't afford that..."

She grinned, just before averting her gaze entirely from him again. "We can't afford to be kicking the debris around the crime scene, either."

He clenched his fingertips around his hips. "My latest bad choice in leadership?" he growled bitterly.

"I don't know about that." Her tone softened so much that he finally looked up. She'd been looking... but she spun around completely on one heel as soon as he returned it. "But don't worry: your secret's safe with me."

He couldn't help smiling just a little as they resumed their examination of the new crime scene. But there were business questions lingering in his mind that prevented him from focusing on the anomaly of her frequently-changing mood swings. And one of them came to the surface, almost as quickly as had the plaster-punting impulse.

"Do we know anything about how this place is connected to our victim? Or potential killers?"

" _I_ don't," answered Sara. "But I messaged Morgan about it while you were bringing the kits in, and talking business with Brass."

Nick waited, and shifted some of the rocks by the hallway door. But she didn't say anything else, so he un-clicked the lock on his kit's front handle, and began to dig around inside it. It was really a mess...

"Hey, Sara?" he asked after a moment.

"Yeah?" she answered him, warily.

There were, of course, a million things he would have preferred to say. Questions and theories coming to mind for all different kinds of topics. So many thoughts, ringing in his head... So many memories... refusing to go away. And it began to feel like an old feeling. Not age wise, but time wise. Like he had felt as a kid, sitting on the back of his aunt and uncle's boat in the early morning, wrapped up in a blanket, staring out at the water. The sun was up in this memory, and he was the first one awake that day. It melded into other memories... More recent. Post his move to Las Vegas. And even, in so many cases, post the ever-present mystery that had always been meeting Sara...

And some, he noted, prior to his beard. Which his fingers were in when she gave in, and looked over at him in puzzlement from his sudden, slow silence. So, he shook his head, and dropped that hand from face to kit. "You don't happen to have any... Oh! Here it is... Never mind."

And when his fingers closed on his improvised target, he rotated his head to say "thank you"... but was stopped in the act by the sight of someone's knees.

"Guys!"

He jumped a little, and lost balance on his heels. There was a slight thud as he fell back, and caught himself on his hands. Sara looked around, and Morgan came down to her knees by him.

"Morgan... could you stop doing that?" he asked. "I was looking for blood..."

"Sorry," she offered. "But I got Sara's message, and so I came out here with what I found. A couple of other things, actually..."

He brushed his hands off on each other. "Yeah? Like what?"

She brandished a sheet of printed paper from her pocket, unfolding as it came. "Results from the paint chips around the victim's body. They were a blue-green-ish color. None of the rooms at the first crime scene had that."

Nick took the paper and scrolled over it quickly, but his eyes stopped on the bottom row, where a composition of the substance's chemicals was listed. "A lead paint?" he said. "There are lead paints somewhere in Las Vegas? Who still uses lead paints?"

"Probably no one," Sara replied.

But her voice sounded echoed, and distant. Nick and Morgan looked around.

"Sara?" he called.

"Up here. Check this out."

He edged around Morgan, and followed the sound of her words up the stairs. The upstairs hallway, for some reason, looked considerably more modern than the downstairs did... They found Sara in the third room from the top of the stairs. It was mid-renovation, it kind of looked like, and there were no lights in it, aside from the one Sara was shining. In the paint, there was a big silhouette.

Sara looked over at him. "Can you say 'fight'?"

His lips turned themselves up. "Fight..." he whispered.

On the other side of him, but a few steps ahead, Morgan rubbed her elbow. "It's kind of chilly in here."

"Yeah... So why would somebody's clothes be lying in the middle of the floor?" inquired Sara. "Look by your feet, Morgan."

Nick looked down where Sara's light shone. There was what looked like a full outfit lying in the center of the floor. Morgan jumped back.

"Whoa," she said, more reciting an expected reaction than actually reacting out of the emotions that usually caused it. "Evidence..."

"Something like that," stated Sara. "Who wants to collect?"

"I don't know," whined Morgan. "They're men's clothes. You do it, Nick."

"I second that," added Sara.

Nick looked over at her, half-expecting to find the remains of another vindictive shot on her face. But she was smiling up at him like she had once done when they were investigating the death of a college frat member. He took a deep breath, and nodded.

"Yeah. Fair enough. Morgan, you go check into the blood situation I was lookin' at. And Sara...?"

In a second, she had tried to hide it. He could tell... An expectation of something unwanted flashed across her face like a goldfish racing around an aquarium. Her eyelids fell a little. A few of her laugh lines faded out.

"Will you be my light?" he amended.

And then, in a blink, her laugh lines resurfaced. "Roger, roger," she returned.

Suddenly, there was a tug at his hand. He looked down, and Morgan had inched the spray bottle he had still been holding out of his grip.

"I'll just, uhm... take that. Thanks."

She backed out from the dark room into the much brighter hallway beyond. And that left Nick and Sara alone.

"Well, anyway..." he muttered. "Let's see if we can get some pictures."

"Yes, sir."

Getting a good angle on the clothes for a usable photo in court was a trial. They could only do so much readjusting before the defense would accuse them of interfering with the natural state of the evidence. They had to use a self-directed source of light, or else the scene's integrity would be compromised. And for some reason – perhaps the fact that the paint smell was much less unpleasant than the decomposing body smell – Nick was not entirely comfortable with breaking the rules. So he tried to capture a good photo with what they had, and hoped at least something would come off well when they printed them back at the lab. If not, he had done his best.

Sara seemed to agree. "We're screwed either way with this one, Nick."

"I know, but you know I hate a challenge." Then he pressed his lips together in false thought. "Mostly..."

It was enough to elicit a little bit of a chuckle. And as they descended the stairs to get bags to put the clothes in, she grabbed onto his arm again. "Really? Then why are you still in this line of work?"

He chuckled. "Because it isn't really a challenge, in the same way as something like that was. I have good help, and the tools needed to take on a whodunit. But when there's no tools, well... that's just plain aggravating."

"I think a lot of these cases can be aggravating. But for me, what would life be without a little aggravation, too..."

* * *

"So, how did they turn out?"

She rounded the corner to the photography lab with a Nutri-Grain bar in one hand, and a clipboard in the other. Nick was leaning against the counter with his hand on his head, and a finger on the printer's cancel button.

"Not bad, actually. Thanks to a certain someone's flashlight skills."

She raised her eyebrows stoically. "Riveting abilities, that's me."

He did not seem amused. Or, at least... he frowned at the counter underneath his elbow. "You should give yourself some credit, Sara. Every once in a while, it would be a good practice to adapt."

She shook her head, and rattled the snack bar. "Mm hmm," she offered, placatingly.

He smiled at that. Why, she did not know.

"Where are we at on the evidence I brought back from the house?"

"Morgan and Hodges are on it. I think Pip's with them, too."

"Good," he managed to get out, through husk and tiredness.

For a moment, she was on the verge of asking about that. But there seemed to have been too much personal interaction for a professional situation. Or rather, she wanted to think that; she knew he wouldn't fess up about whatever was on his mind, anyway... So she dropped it, for the moment, and read off of her clipboard.

"Brass wanted me to tell you, he's on his way to pick up Clara Jaffel. They'll be back for interrogation soon. But Brandon's still hanging around."

Nick straightened up. "We'd better go and talk to him, then. That's our best bet until they finish up with the evidence from the house."

"'We'?" she repeated. "Are you sure you need my help with this one?"

But at once, she regretted that. "If you wanted to go and process evidence, you're more than welcome," he started to say.

"Well... That's... not what I meant. I just mean, if you think he won't respond badly to my being there..."

"That's not what you meant, either," he called her bluff.

She bit her lower lip. "No, I suppose it isn't. What I meant was, if you wanted a break, I'll go back to evidence."

"A break from what?"

She could not think. Fortunately for her in that moment, her mouth didn't move as fast as her mind. But she didn't have to land anywhere, because the best of his supervisory talents poked through.

"Let's go for it," he decided aloud. "You can be my character witness. You know, if anyone accuses me of getting too personal with the suspect..."

He passed her on his way out the door with footsteps that seemed shorter than he normally took. By the door, he stopped to add one more thing.

"I mean, you know, if you still got my back..."

"Always," she replied automatically.

But he was already on the move down the hall. And as she turned to follow him, she wasn't sure if he had heard that or not.

* * *

"We think we may have found your grandmother, Brandon."

The boyish-looking young man across the table from Nick regarded him with an expression of suspicion. Sara watched as her co-worker's practiced fingers deftly dealt out a few of their less graphic photos for their suspect to see. Their suspect who, she could not help but notice, looked even a little more terrible...

He pressed a finger to the edge of one of the photos, and there was a tear following a well-worn, red path on its way down his cheek, clearly before he had had time to take it all in. "Yes," he breathed, when it had sunken in on his face. "That's my grandma..."

Beside her, she felt a stiffness form. It radiated off of Nick, who was gripping his knee under the table till his knuckles were white. She stared at them like she might be able to relax them, without actually touching them in their present company.

"What happened?" was Brandon's next question.

"We don't know," Nick said. "But we found her in the old Grandiose Plastics building, about three blocks away from her house. We couldn't find any information besides its name, but that's where she was."

Brandon nodded like this information made perfect sense to him. "Of course... That was my mom's family's business, once."

Sara traced the edge of the table with her eyes, a crease forming between her brows like an idea had formed into her mind. "Brandon..." she tried. "You said that your parents died when you were seven. But that business closed in 1996. What happened?"

"It closed in 2000," he corrected. "My parents had both run businesses. My mother's was just more profitable than the home care. Everyone wanted to buy plastic products, you know? Too few people in this city care about what their home looks like."

"I hear ya," Nick said. "You should see some of the places we investigate..."

Sara's foot struck his leg underneath the table. In the window, she could see his eye flinch.

"Do you know why your grandmother would have been there?" she asked. "If it closed in 2000, that was still almost fifteen years ago. Seems a little odd, don't you think? And how would she have gotten in?"

Nick did not seem approving of this line of questioning. But he didn't interrupt, either. Because of his earlier talk of character integrity, or some other logic she couldn't have the faintest idea about...

Brandon, however, made an I-don't-know gesture with his torso, and leaned on the table with his forehead behind both hands. "I couldn't tell you. She really loved my mother. She said she was so happy when my father married her, after a few bad relationships. Maybe she just wanted to go and remember her. It's not like I haven't..."

Even Nick couldn't miss the possibilities of the implication behind this. "You've been there?"

"Oh, yeah," sighed Brandon. "I've gone there a few times."

Sara shifted uncomfortably in her seat. Just because Nick could see a potential problem with that didn't mean he would jump on it. But should she ask for a DNA sample? She wasn't on borderline buddy terms like Nick was with their suspect...

"Then that means we might find some of you there," she decided to try anyway. "We need a DNA sample."

Brandon arched his neck. "What?" And then let his forehead bang down on the table, where he left it in the discouraged state he seemed to be perpetually in.

"It's a preventative measure, Brandon," Nick promised. "If we can't eliminate you from the other sets of DNA... or even fingerprint evidence that we might find there, it's going to be harder and take longer to find out who killed your grandma and your uncle. And I'm not saying I think you did it, but court jurors might not be so understanding if we can't prove beyond a shadow of a doubt that you weren't involved."

Suddenly, Brandon appeared to be scared. "I'm going to look like I'm involved, anyway. You _are_ going to find me there, no matter what!" His tone rose. "How are you going to prove I didn't kill them if my fingerprints are on something that somebody else might have used–"

"Brandon, it's okay," cut in Sara. "It's okay. We can combine it with other things that we find. If you didn't do it, we'll know that well before this goes to court."

He sighed, and rubbed his hand over the top of his head.

"Can we have some DNA and fingerprints, Brandon?" she pressed after a moment of silence.

Brandon's eyes leaked again, and he looked up at the clock. "Can we at least wait until tomorrow to do the fingerprints?" he said. "I've been here all day. God... I just wanted to visit my grandmother on my day off..." He sniffled, and brushed his eyes off for what felt to Sara like the millionth time. "I'll give you the DNA, and be back here in the morning for the rest of it. Befor-before work."

Sara dug her fingernails into her palms. That would be Nick's call. She turned to him for a decision.

He pressed his lips together, thoughtfully. "...I suppose we can do that, man. But you'll have to tell us where you work, in case we can't get them from you in the morning."

Sara's heart sank a little. She had kind of hoped for more of a push...

Brandon, however, sighed. "I work at the Galaxy Tech warehouse. I'm on level 3, in the tablet support department."

It was a good thing Nick was scribbling that down. Sara was still reeling too much to really retain anything...

"Okay, then," said Nick. "Sara, can you hand me a swab? Brandon, open your mouth for a second."

As the sun sank to the very edge of the horizon, the interrogation ended. Brandon was off on his way home, and Sara watched him go with crossed arms and a sigh of resolution. Behind her, Nick was zipping the evidence bag with his DNA in it up. She looked up at the clock. Russell would be there soon... and Greg, and the others.

Nick didn't seem bothered, though. "Let's go and get this through the system," he said, almost sounding cheery.

She followed him down the hall with her vision out the window. It was around that time of the day yesterday that she had almost died. And then again, a short while after that. She clenched her hands around her forearms and gritted her teeth. Even without the extra long, draggy quality of yesterday, the day she'd had since had not been a particularly good one. She couldn't help glaring at the back of Nick's shoulder as they made their way to the DNA lab; she usually enjoyed it when he covered shifts. And after his comforting presence last night, his kicking her off the crime scene, playing evasive with his issues away from work, and now letting a suspect go without extracting as much evidence as possible had officially rendered his performance over that day "shitty", in her mind. At least, as a friend.

When they reached the lab, though, it was driven from her mind almost immediately. Morgan and Hodges were both going through their evidence boxes frantically, faces all red... Pip was standing back awkwardly, looking between them like he was worried they might explode.

"What's the rush?" questioned Nick.

Morgan looked up from the long curtain of her hair, and for the first time since they'd arrived that day, appeared more worried and shook up than enthusiastic and eager. "Nick... We're missing something."

Contrary to his triumphant demeanor from acquiring Brandon's DNA, Nick's shoulders slumped, and his attitude rolled over from one gear to the next in a flash. "What?!"

Sara jumped back, and could hear the sounds of other feet landing on the floor. She turned, and saw that their rookie had just returned. There was an index card in his hand, and a fading smile on his face.

"We're missing some evidence," Morgan repeated, in a worried, breathy whisper.

Nick's hands came up to cover his face. His left foot bounced up and down. His eyes darted immediately to the clock.

"Our official supervisor is going to be here in about an hour... And we're missing some evidence? On my shift? With an IA inquiry still waiting to land? Do I have that right?"

Morgan's head fell a little, and Hodges squeezed the box he was holding.

"Yes," Morgan said.

Sara inhaled a large gulp of air, and exchanged glances of concern with their deflated-looking trainee. Nick ran two fingers over both eyes, and looked down at his watch impulsively. Then he turned back to Sara, both ignoring the sudden, overdone look of distress that came across Hodges' face.

"Will you help me with this?"

And she only had one answer: "Yes."


	11. I Will

"Okay, so what Hodges found was that the molds of the large dent in the kitchen table matched the hair dryer used to kill the victim," Sara reaffirmed.

Back at the original crime scene, Nick slammed the door to the GMC shut behind him. Something of what she'd just said stuck with him, somewhere... but he was having a hard time focusing. His nerves were beginning to feel fried.

"So, it didn't happen in one blow," Sara continued. "Whoever killed him must have missed the kitchen table, at one point or another."

"That's right..." Nick mused. "Which would imply that the victim was at least sober enough to know he was being attacked. He was able to evade it at least once."

"Matches David's findings in autopsy."

They crossed the yard and entered the front door with purpose. He could tell his every step was calling for one and a half from Sara, but he didn't care as much as he probably should have. He whipped his flashlight out like a baton, and clicked the beam on before it was even edged out of his vest's holder.

"So, where did you start?" inquired Sara. "Before you sent us away, you were by the body..."

Nick bit down on his tongue. Literally...

"I'm guessing you spread to the kitchen? After you were done looking upstairs with Morgan?"

"Yeah..." His mind automatically re-ran his path through the scene; he could see the evidence where it had been as clearly as if he were gathering it up again. "Here was the wood splinter-paint chip combo. Over there, I started finding bits and pieces of Clara..."

She was watching his every finger point like a hawk. He began to feel self-conscious, and his tone rose a little.

"Uhm... that was the mold of the dash on the kitchen table. But over in the living room, there should be a marker by the blood stain on the carpet, and the weird plant particles by the love seat, there..."

Sara nodded, and her eyes seemed to roam over the darkening room by themselves. "So, what do they not have?"

Nick rubbed the side of his neck. "Uh... the, uh... The plant particles."

Sara sighed, resignation all over her tone with her next sentence. "Somebody stole it, Nick. While you were here, somebody stole some of your evidence, at some point."

Nick looked up from the stain of blood. First at the ceiling, and then at her. "Yeah," he admitted. "Yeah... Somebody stole it."

She clicked her tongue. "Okay, then..."

A sinking feeling settled in him. And not just in his stomach, where it usually would. His arms felt limp. His shoulders felt heavy. His eyes would not seem to stay up. This was it: if he had skirted the bounds of the rules before in his career, there was no way around it, now.

"I'm screwed..." he muttered. His hands came up to his hair, and he exhaled a breath he hadn't noticed he was holding. He spun around a couple of times, and looked wherever his eyes fell.

He heard Sara's footsteps clanking on the floor, before he felt her hand clutch his shoulder. He turned, and looked right at her. He could feel the tension of his eyebrows pulling together. His facial muscles ached a little. His leg would not stop bouncing, nervously. And why not...? If there was room for a minor meltdown with anyone, it would have to be her. No one else had been there for so long. Even if they would understand, it wouldn't be the same...

Sara, however, didn't seem to notice the signs on his anxiety. Or at least, she didn't speak like she did... "You are not. We'll find them, Nick. And they know you. They know that these things happen, sometimes. I'll be a witness. It's going to be okay."

His bottom lip tightened, and his entire jaw tensed. Like a dog holding on to a bone too strong for it to chew through. For a moment, anyway...

But then: "Okay." And another relieving exhale. "Thank you, Sara. We got this."

Her toothy smile was extra noticeable in the faint sunlight still streaming through the windows. Along with the rest of her...

* * *

The call came from Brass shortly after they left the house. The original plan had been to go and find Martin Trem; their young rookie had offered his contact information as a bargaining chip for getting to go home for the night. Sara had figured the first hand experience with a case crisis would be good for him, at first... but she could hardly blame Nick for his reasoning.

"We'll file the formals after the fact," he had said. "He has a potential life time of this kind of headache ahead." And then, to their learner: "Go and get some rest, man."

She smiled at him through the side of her vision. He had agreed to let her drive while he jotted down all the details of the missing evidence. When the call had come through from Brass, his tone had changed rather abruptly – harshly... into one of business. She frowned at the steering wheel she was operating, and stole another glance over at him. He clicked the pen he was writing with in and out a couple of times.

And then put it to paper with a mumble of, "Found... the blood... by the kitchen..."

She grinned out the windshield, as she brought her attention back to the road. Dedication was no problem for tricky Nicky...

She frowned as she realized how odd that would sound if she'd said it loud. "Hey, Nick?"

"What?"

"Did you ever think of someone in a weird way? That you wouldn't say out loud?"

"Sure. I had the weirdest thought about Warrick, once. After he died..."

 _That_ changed her focus... Suddenly, her curiosity went through the roof. A considerably lengthy ride, given the height of the GMC... "Really? Like what?"

He grinned at the paper he was writing on. "I thought we said it was the kind of thing we wouldn't say out loud."

"Well, yes, but it's all fun and games until you drop a hint like that."

His teeth peeked out of his ever-widening smile. "Uh huh... Ask me some other time. I swear, I'll tell."

She giggled. "I'm holding you to that."

"Oh, I know..."

They rolled into the parking lot with ease. She was proud of her handling of such a large vehicle. She barely remembered Greg having made fun of her, the first time he'd ridden with her... It was kind of freeing to realize that he wasn't around to offer such "humor"...

She clicked the transmission in park, and undid the keys from the ignition at the same time. Realizing what her next question would have to be, she took a deep breath, first; if he said "yes", she would have to accept it...

"Are we splitting up?" she asked. "I'll go help Morgan and Hodges, you do the interrogation?"

His head shot up, and his answer came without a beat. "Not a fucking chance."

She leaned back a little behind his back, while he flung open the passenger door and hopped out. Her eyes widened a bit... But her cheeks also did that thing. Where one doesn't want to smile at something they don't understand, but can't help feeling like there's a reason they can't stop it.

Perhaps because he commented on it, it lasted all the way to the interrogation room. Which was extremely icy as they looked in... Leaving little doubt in Sara's mind about what to expect from Clara before they even began asking her questions: bitchiness.

"I do not understand this, Miss Sidle. I've been very cooperative. Why am I being brought in like a criminal?"

Sara opened her mouth to speak.

But Nick got there first. "Because you're a liar."

Clara regarded him like a fish on the beach. "And you are...?"

He leaned forward and folded his hands in front of him. "Nicholas Stokes. Case lead, and former customer... And I've got some questions for you. I want honest answers, this time."

She had stiffened up a bit. She gave one prominent blink, and began to address Sara again.

"Where is the other lady you came to the store with?"

The false concern in her voice set Sara's teeth on edge. "She's preoccupied. Don't worry; Nick has seen all the facts."

"Forgive me, but apparently not," said Clara. "Or else I don't think I would be under suspicion."

"We catch liars in this business, Clara," Sara shot back. "That's what we do. And we found some real holes in your story. We need answers. Real ones... Like Nick said. So explain to us how we found blood, and vaginal lubrication – all matched to you – in the kitchen at our crime scene?"

Clara made a odd movement with her head. Like she was sneering at the very suggestion... "What are you talking about? I was never told where your crime scene was at?"

Sara smiled derisively in a different direction.

Nick took it from there. In a rather dangerous tone of voice... "I don't think a jury is going to believe that your personal, intimate DNA just happened to be at the house of the man whose murder we asked you about. You told us you talked to an old lady. The home owner... who's been found dead, too. And the grandson... who you've claimed to have turned down an indirect offer to... is distraught by the loss of his family members. So quit screwing around, and tell us what you know about the situation."

A shudder shot up and down Sara's spine. And eventually settled in her legs rather uncomfortably...

Clara must have felt something, too. "Alright," she gave in, through a watery sounding voice. "I was there. I knew him. I may have been involved with him, just for an evening... It was too much; I couldn't let such a chance pass me by. Do you know how long it had been...? Almost a year!" And she turned to Sara. "Can you imagine a year without any kind of... _physical_ intimacy, Miss Sidle?"

Sara flicked her eyebrows up, and looked away awkwardly. But not before catching Nick's tongue poking the inside of his bottom lip.

"When that gentleman came in, I... I just couldn't help it! He was so very nice looking... I _had_ to accept it... My shift had ended, and I was free to go. I followed them to the house after I closed up."

Sara's torso had stiffened, slightly. Her eyes seemed to narrow themselves... "And you slept with him."

"I did. He– I... Well, we... Yes. All over..."

Under the table, Nick's hand clenched where it rested on his thigh. His leg was up in a bow shape, ankle rested on the opposite knee. He glared. "Why wouldn't you just tell us that?"

"Because of the– Because of what I woke up to the next morning..."

Her voice had dropped dramatically. Like she had just broached something nobody would blame her for not talking about. And for a moment, she didn't seem too inclined to continue.

Nick and Sara looked at each other for a second. And then back to the stifled young woman. Sara fought not to laugh when Nick angled his head towards her, lips jutted out inquiringly. "Yes...?" he pressed.

Clara's foot could be heard stamping once underneath the table. "Please, sir..." she beggingly whined. "I may have committed an... indiscretion, but I don't like unclean things. I don't want to talk about them."

Nick drew and released his next breath within the same half second. "Well, I guess that's just the way the cookie crumbles, huh? We need to know. I don't think you understand the serious legal implications, here. The man you were having a vigorous one stand with died in the same house that you both had it. Probably within the same time proximity... So you're gonna need to give me some details about the state of the house when you woke up."

She chewed on her bottom lip. "What if I refused?"

"Then we have great grounds for a warrant to search every known aspect of your life," Sara rattled out. "This won't be pretty either way, Clara."

The young woman seemed to be fastly approaching the realization of that unpleasant fact. She gave her foot another stamp, and then leaned forward with her head in her hands.

"Oh, alright... Okay." She gave a false sniffle, and brushed the bottom of her nose. "When I woke up, Mrs. Samekey was nowhere to be found. She had gone to bed quite soon after we had gone to the house. So, the next morning, I went downstairs, and there was a young man in the kitchen. And there were bruises all over him. He was crying... I felt so sorry for him, I just had to embrace him."

When the new tear rolled down the suspect's cheek, Sara squeezed her hands to dig her nail tips into her palms. What a bunch of shit...

"He told me that he couldn't find his grandmother, or his uncle. But there were a lot of alcohol bottles by his feet. So I asked him if there was anything I could do. And I left when he would hear of no help from me."

There were one or two details that stood out to Sara, but the first one to come to mind was cut off by Nick. "What was so horribly unclean about a bruised up–"

"–wait... You mean, it wasn't Brandon that you slept all over the house with?"

She eyed Nick like something strange again. "Oh, no. No, no, he was nothing like the gentleman that had brought Mrs. Samekey to the store. So large and strong... Such an awful drinking problem. But no troubles using the good Lord's gift to men that–"

Sara cut her off, too. "Thanks, Clara, we're good on that."

And then Nick turned to her, as she was rubbing her weary eyes for a moment. "That means Brandon didn't tell us the whole truth. If this is true... he was there before he came running up to the house this afternoon."

He seemed disappointed, but Sara was not surprised... Nevertheless, she thought comfort would be the more diplomatic approach, if she was to keep Nick going much longer.

"Nick..."

"'He was there'?" quoted Clara. "Oh, yes. Yes, he walked in on us in the kitchen. He most certainly knew..."

Nick sighed, and let his head bounce down on the table. Sara patted his back lightly, and looked to the wide-eyed Brass, standing by the double-edged wall that she knew Morgan was watching them through.


	12. Peace in the Wind

"Okay..."

Nick was at the head of the processing table in the materials lab. He was leaning on it with both hands on each edge of its narrow end. Morgan was sipping at some coffee, and Sara had taken a seat in a sliding stool from the DNA computer. Brass seemed a little bemused, by the look he was giving everybody; why, Sara could not guess.

"So, this guy, Hector, winds up dead in the living room a while back..." Nick recap-ed. "So long ago that his decomp is oozing out into the neighborhood."

"Right, and... before he died, which had to have been no less than a week and a half ago... he sleeps with this weird lady from a small jewelry store," added Sara. "Where he drove an old lady to buy a near-real diamond that she'd saved up for her entire life."

"And if the weird lady isn't lying to us, the old lady was gone when she woke up the next morning from her nasty nocturnal adventures with the soon-to-be dead guy," continued Morgan. "And she finds this old lady's grandson there with bruises all over him."

"Which would mean he had to have taken off his shirt," Hodges interjected. "For _some_ reason..."

"And there was sperm, booze, and blood all over the crime scene, suggesting an at-the-very-least unsavory lifestyle," brought home Brass. "All of which would make perfect sense for a potentially-closeted victim that apparently made frequent stops in with his same-sex tendencies."

The room went quiet. Sara began to roll over the remaining evidence in her mind. What else was left to look at? They had some fingerprints to compare... but Mandy and Hodges had already put two and two together. And it equaled four... The prints matched even the limited ten card David had gotten them; and if they didn't, the evidence was sufficient enough to reassure a jury, because they came from the same articles as prints that _did_ match outright.

DNA was a go, too. They could now confirm that the sperm all over the house was mostly the victim's... and the rest was not a match. So they were still looking for something to compare that to... But in the meantime, there was nothing they could do with it. And it would be a bit, still, before the autopsy on Mrs. Samekey would come through.

But then, it occurred to her. "Wait a second... What about the postcard Mrs. Samekey left in the jewelry store?"

"Oh, yeah!" chimed Morgan. "We never finished processing it!"

"Wait a minute, what?" asked Nick, confusion all over him. "What are you talking about, now...?"

"There was a postcard in the dumpster outside of the alley," explained Sara, with a little impatience. "Clara said that Brandon's grandmother left it behind. Morgan found out it was a forged message, but we never did find out where."

There seemed to be a light in Nick's eyes. "Well, there you go." He smiled at her like she imagined he would a Texas sunrise. "Why don't you check that out?"

"Sounds good. Come on, Sara!"

* * *

As they hurried around the corner, and back to the evidence vault, Nick pulled a pen from his shirt pocket, and drew the report he had been writing about his stolen evidence toward him, from where it had sat on the table.

"So, Nicky... What are you going to do about that?"

He looked up. Brass was watching him gravely, hands dangling quite passively at his sides. At once, Nick felt defensive.

"What do you mean, what am I going to do with it? I'm going to turn it in. Take my punishment like a man... God knows, there's plenty of that to go around, here, especially lately..."

Brass raised his eyebrows. "You're not gonna look for it?"

"I... think I'm going to go and... get some coffee," interjected Hodges.

Nick watched him go... waiting until he was well out of earshot before answering Brass' next question. "Well, yeah, I'm gonna look for it, but I have to notify IA. Which'll mean another inquiry..."

"That's my point," Brass pressed. He leaned in, and adjusted his tone. "Why not just skip that whole thing, unless it's absolutely necessary?"

Nick stopped his chicken scratching. "That's... seriously illegal."

Brass' face turned up into a smile. "All right. Just checking to see where your heart's at. I shoulda known."

Nick did not necessarily volunteer his next comment; it burst out on its own. "Yeah, you should have known I'd do the right thing, Jim."

Brass shrugged casually, but sounded a little more taken aback than he seemed to have wanted to let on. "Hey, Nicky, it's just part of the job. I mean, I know nobody's behavior is perfect, all right? There's just been a few of those moments today..."

Nick nodded, but did not look up. "Yeah, I know. I missed that body at the other crime scene. I lost my cool in a couple of interrogations..."

He stopped. Suddenly, something occurred to him...

"Alls I'm saying–" began Brass.

"–hey," Nick interrupted. "Wait... Did we ever run serial checks on the rest of the jewelry Sara found?"

"Sara and Morgan...?" asked Brass. "I don't know. I was out lookin' for that Trem guy. Why? I thought they had that pretty well covered."

"I'm not sure," said Nick.

He reached into his back pocket, and pulled his cell phone out. Under the home screen's "Business" tile, there was a DEC function: Departmental Electronic Communications. And one of the top choices was always "Front Desk".

"What you need them for?" inquired Brass, when Nick had pressed it.

"I wanna ask if they can send me Pip," replied Nick.

"Who?"

"Hi, Candace? Can you put me in touch with Maintenance?"

* * *

"Okay, so here's what we want to do... You were with Morgan when we looked at these earlier, correct?"

In front of him, the squeaky-voiced young maintenance man – with a wrench in one hand, and his helmet in the other – nodded.

"Do you remember if she scanned the jewelry for any additional serial numbers?"

He frowned, confused.

"Did she use this?" tried Nick again, pointing to the laser used for reading otherwise-hidden numbers.

Pip regarded it. "I don't think so. I don't wanna make it a claim..."

"That's alright. Rather she did or not, I'm going to."

He gave a slight pull on the box, and it slid towards him. Taking the first of several pieces of jewelry from the inside, he brought it over to the laser, and positioned it on the small, adjustable stand. The first piece fit fine.

"What's this for?" asked Pip, less quietly.

"This is one type of serial check," explained Nick. "A lot of things we buy and sell here in America are numbered. Particularly really expensive things... This is how we drag them out so we can search them up. We have a database for just about everything you can imagine. I wanna see if all of these items trace back to the same store as the first one Sara and Morgan found..."

Pip nodded, and leaned in a little closer to Nick's shoulder. From behind them, Brass adopted a satisfied expression, and meandered out of the room.

It took a long time to read all the different jewelry. Or so it felt. But as each one was passed, and the numbers recorded and run through the system, Nick felt a growing sense of accomplishment creeping up on him. And, unlike most of what he had been feeling that night... accomplishment was a welcome sensation.

But finally, he slid the laser up, and set it back in its hold. "There," he said to no one in particular. "We got it."

"Er... got what?" asked Pip.

"All the serial numbers. Let's check these out..."

There was a function on his makeshift supervisor's card that would allow him to run all the numbers at once instead of one at a time. Hodges came in on the tail use of it, carrying a mug of coffee.

"What'd I miss? The magic card...?"

"No," Nick spat. "But we did scan all these diamonds, here, for serial numbers..."

Hodges stuck his lower lip out, in an expression of being impressed. "Oh. There's a good idea..."

In spite of himself, and the person he was kinda, sorta interacting with, Nick smiled. "I have those every once in a while. Now watch..."

A bit of coding flashed across the screen. Strange combinations of letters and numbers and symbols that Nick had never grown accustomed to. Always a sign that the lab computers were working, and working as they should be, on the given task to them...

It came with a flash. The only difference in all the serial numbers was on a green, generically-gem-shaped article that had not been sold from to the store from which the others were eventually bought.

"Well, what do you know..." remarked Hodges. "Those bastards..."

But Nick's phone was already on its way to his ear. "Yeah, that sounds about right."

After a couple of rings, the other end answered. "Brass."

"Hey, Jim?"

"Nick?"

"Yeah... Where's Officer Mitchell at, tonight?"

* * *

The last known place of business for the green-ish gem seemed very remote. As Nick and Mitchell pulled up by it, and Nick cut the GMC's engine, it struck him as an odd place for anything as nice to have come from... He looked down at it, sitting on his driver's seat in its bag; what a weird little thing, it appeared...

The sound of the door opening and closing on the squad car reminded him to get out, himself. His feet touched the ground, and he grabbed the bagged gem with some fervor before closing and locking his own ride's door.

"So, is anybody home?" asked Mitchell, surveying the place with his hands on his hips. "Looks pretty deserted to me."

"No, no, this is the place," assured Nick.

"The place for what? The diamond?"

"We're kinda calling it a gem, for differentiating," explained Nick. "We already got a significant jewel in the picture."

"Yeah, the victim's family cross jewels," joked Mitchell, though quite straightly. "I hear he was having him a freak night before he died."

"That's what our suspect is telling us," said Nick. "But she works at the store we got the diamond from. We're out here because that diamond was pretty close to real. This one's not." He scanned the gem in his hand with a bit of a disdain. "It's got almost no genuine quality to it. Who or whatever was involved with its production and sale, they made or sold a bad fake. So let's see what we can learn while we're out here."

The inside of the building was brightly lit. Contrary to its industrial outside appearance, the interior was obviously trying to come off as upper class. _This_ was a much more respectable establishment than Sara and Morgan had described the little store as being. But the people in it were twice as snobby as the ones Sara and Morgan had described in the store, as well. It seemed completely phony, even for a stereotypically-defined well-financed business person, when the woman with the fanciest dress approached, and offered to shake Nick's hand.

"Madame Briey Challal," she introduced herself as. "Owner of the fine Woman's Best Friend jewelry boutique. Welcome, law enforcement."

Nick pressed his lips together at the small, unconvincing bow she sank into.

"And what can we help you with tonight?"

But it never worked to put off signs of see-through. "Why, thank you much. Uhm..." Nick looked down at the gem in his hand. "During the course of a murder investigation, we came across this."

He handed it to her gently. She viewed the item with a small flicker of disgust before accepting it from him.

"I ran its serial number through my database, and it led me to here."

"Here...?" repeated Madame Challal. As if the very idea were scandalous... "Surely, not here. Anyone with even the slightest knowledge in fine jewelry could see that this is not even a partially believable piece."

"Yeah, I dug that up, too," said Nick. "I learned all kinds of things about that little gem. Literally..."

He chuckled. But she did not seem to appreciate his humor much. She stared back at him in a completely monotoned way.

He shrugged. "I need to know everything you do about this thing. I've got the serial number right here. Could you run it through your own system? See if it comes up?"

Madame Challal looked to give this a fair bit of thought. For such a simple question, Nick thought, she sure did take her sweet time answering.

And when she did, it was not any more pleasant than her personality. "I'm afraid there's nothing I can do for you, Mr..." She squinted at his name tag. "Stokes. We do not produce these kinds of items. This is a mockery of my family's art! I think it's time for you to leave."

Nick leaned his head back a little. "Are you making an official refusal? Because, you know, it wouldn't be that hard to get a warrant."

"Then, please... Do get one." A sickly-sweet smile spread across her face. "I will not cooperate. Anything you get out of me, it will not come easy."

Nick's eyelids fell just a little bit. "Look, ma'am: I'm in a bit of a tight spot, here. I have a lot to get done, and not much time to do it. I'd really appreciate your help. I'm not accusing you or your company of anything. I just want to know who killed the victim I found."

At this, the snooty woman gave a short, pretentious, single laugh. "I have no interest in the outcome of your investigation. I know nothing of who murdered your victim, and I do not want an investigation rooting through my reputable company. Please, Mr. Stokes; I must ask you to take your leave."

She held the gem out to him. He folded his arms across his chest, and stared at her for a moment. About a thousand things went through his mind, from calling her names to snapping at the blonde employee girl behind the desk and a couple of customers browsing the shelves to get back to their lives. He would potentially face worse consequences if he did that, though.

So he took the gem back, perhaps with a little too much force, and followed Officer Mitchell out the door. "I'll be back," he sighed back at her. "Just as soon as I've got the warrant."

"And I shall be waiting with bells on."

* * *

"What a bitch."

Nick almost choked on the water he was drinking as Sara's blunt response to his relaying of the story sank in. It was so very like her fom about eight years ago... Before the Miniature Killer had affected her...

"Jeez, Sara. Don't hold back, now, tell me how you really feel..." he laughed.

"Well...? What am I supposed to say? She was..."

He rubbed his lips with his fingers, and tried to brush some of the water droplets out of his beard. "I know she was, but there was nothing I could do. I've just gotta come back and get the warrant. So you and Morgan, can you follow up on that postcard?"

"I think we can, actually," Sara answered. "Because, speaking of new venues, we've got a lock on one: Pressing Printers, out in the desert. On the west side?"

"Closer to the setting sun..." Nick remarked. Though it was a memory from childhood that came to his mind, then.

She seemed to sense something weird in the way he'd said it. "Are you sure you're okay?"

"Yeah," he responded automatically. "I've just got a lot to sort out. It's hard to keep up with, sometimes..."

"I know it," she all but whispered back to him. "But trust me: you've got this."

"I thought it was a ' _we_ ' thing. I'm still counting on you as my character witness, Sara."

"Then you should know it'll be fine." And then: "Okay, I'm coming!"

Nick grinned out the windshield at the setting sun ahead. It suddenly occurred to him that he had gone out in the exact opposite direction she was going... "Morgan?" he stated, as if that said it all.

"Morgan," sighed Sara. "She had another Rock Star drink."

Nick wiped some of the sweat off his forehead. "Well, be careful with that. She's liable for anything, that crazy Morgan."

"Hey!" he heard the aforementioned crazy one shout from the other end.

He chuckled at her. "Just keepin' it real."

The sound of Sara's laughter seemed to echo in the cabin. The cabin, or his mind, he was not sure which. But he took a breath, and bid them goodbye before hanging up.

"Bye, Nick. Be careful out there."

"Yeah. You, too..."

He had received no less than ten text messages from his family while he'd been on the phone with her. But rather than mess with it, he gave the phone a slight toss into the passenger's seat. It landed by the gem, and clinked against it just enough to be audible. His eyes flashed over to it automatically; the last thing he needed was to damage the evidence, and then be left explaining what happened to it. There was already enough trouble riding on his head, at the moment...

But rather than focus on that... he let his eyes veer from the road for a moment. He was fortunate that Officer Mitchell didn't like driving ahead. Technically, it was the department's policy, but on the country roads, Nick had taken the lead on the road many times. And he always enjoyed it when they wandered a little out into the desert. Particularly on the east side of the city... He rolled the window down enough to lean his elbow on the sill of it, and let the air flow in and around. It was a beautiful sight out...

Looking down, he could see the various kinds of cacti growing; each one seemed to flaunt a different array of flowers and arrangements. Looking a little farther out, he could see small dunes of sand; they were plain in color and detail... but each one was as different as a person, he thought, with their many shapes and sizes. The road, itself, was a bit of a marvel; it wound so interestingly through the sand, he felt like it was a scientific theory in practice, with a bright future ever on. And looking up to the sky, he could see some kinds of birds flying across the horizon; somewhere up a little closer to the always-beautiful clouds, his long-repressed romantic side wondered, like a child, how it would feel to float on them.

To touch the birds' wings or backs when they flew by... How very much like Grissom he was turning out to be. Although he couldn't remember the last time he'd thought of that as something he wanted, it brought some peace as it settled in.


	13. Embrace

After hanging up the phone, Sara's stomach loosened considerably. When she looked up and around at the lab, it seemed brighter. Even if the sky outside looked darker, the lab did feel like the same safe haven it had occasionally felt on some of the more grueling cases. Which is not how she thought she would describe the one she was on, but still...

Morgan had gone and returned with their field kits in what felt like a matter of seconds. "All set yet?"

It struck Sara to try saying "no", just to see what kind of a reaction she would get. But she didn't. And so she soon found herself staring out the window of the department's GMC, wondering what was happening in her old lab of San Francisco... And if their cases had ever been as grueling as some she could remember in Las Vegas...

"This should be fun," commented Morgan, as they pulled in to park at the printer business. "Every step on this one has been."

"Just promise me we can run for the door if anyone comes out wearing a shawl," Sara replied.

"Right."

But the inside of the printing business was considerably less gloomy than the jewelry store had been. There were tasteful, if industrial decorations on the walls. The people were friendly enough to smile and wave, and move on with their affairs without pushing too hard. They were dressed the part, as well: suits and ties, skirts and high heels, and not a single shawl in sight, save for one of the customers setting up for a round of business cards. And she was a nice-looking, middle-aged woman. And Sara found that she was really grateful for the sight of something as normal and non-threatening as her, the more she listened to the reassuring sounds of pleasant customer interactions...

"Good evening, madams," the studly young gentleman from behind the desk they approached greeted them. "And how may I help you young ladies today?"

Sara flicked one eyebrow up, but Morgan seemed to fall right into it. "We have questions, good sir," she quickly bubbled back. "About a postcard we believe may have been forged here..."

He blinked a couple of times, and lurched his torso back in false surprise. "'Forged'?" he repeated.

"That's right," said Morgan. "Here..."

She produced the card in its bag from her vest pocket. The man looked it up and down for a moment, and a crease formed between his eyebrows.

"I... don't recognize it. But we can run it through our records, I suppose. We usually don't use this type of ink for a common postcard. And we usually only make postcards for the actual Post _Office_."

"Then somebody got something they shouldn't have," realized Sara. "This was found on an old lady, in this state."

"Indeed... 'Help'..." read the man. "Help with what...?"

His expression was one of mild panic. He looked at them with the eyes of a person who had never seen someone in need of help outside of television before. Sara suddenly felt kind of sorry for him.

"We don't know," she explained. "But that's what we're trying to find out. We're from the Las Vegas crime lab. We're treating this investigation as a homicide."

At the word "homicide", the masculine secretary was definitely frightened. "Uhm... let me get my manager," he offered hastily. "Just a moment, please."

His exit into the back room was very abrupt, and it seemed to Sara very inept. She sighed, and looked over at Morgan to ask for her opinion. Where she was met with a look of high school girl-like dreaminess.

"Did you see the abs on that guy?"

Sara bit her lip, and choked on her question about "the guy". She was sure she would get little more than that...

"What about the rest of the place?" she tried instead. "What do you think? On the up-and-up...?"

Morgan shrugged. "We can't see a mountain in every molehill."

Sara grinned, and diverted her gaze. Morgan was not young enough to get away with that kind of crush-driven remark, but she was young enough to get more of a pass than Sara would have. So she looked for oddities in her environment, herself... and waited for Morgan's Rock Star to wear off a little.

She took a few steps away from the spontaneously-struck blond, and ran her eyes over the lobby. She had to admit, there seemed to be a certain truth to Morgan's description of it: a molehill, perceived as a mountain. She would have expected nothing less of a printing press lobby than black-and-white photos with tidbits of printing's history written on them, and abstract pieces of metallic arts all over the side tables. Magazines of all kinds seemed to be scattered everywhere, including the latest issue of the one she had been trying to read in the lab earlier. By all accounts, there was a lot of normalcy on hand, and nothing in the way of extraordinary. Unless one counted the thinly-disguised attempts at a timeline on the walls...

"Sara!" called Morgan.

She spun around, and saw that the secretary had returned with a gentleman in a managerial-looking suit. "Oh..." she muttered to herself, and hastened to join them by the desk.

"Good evening, ladies," the manager said as she reached the counter. "I understand you have legal questions for us?"

"Not for you–" Morgan began to say.

But Sara cut in. "Yes. We think we may have connected your facility with a homicide."

"A homicide...?"

Sara indicated the postcard that Morgan had set down in front of her. "We have reason to believe that an older woman, by the name of Geraldine Samekey, may have been trying to reach out with it. In a manner that did not alert someone who was with her."

The manager crinkled his eyebrows in much the same way as his employee had done. "Reach out for help? Subtly...?"

"That's what we suspect," Sara continued. "We did some tests, and the ink used here was a match to the one on this postcard. We're eliminating businesses from the list that don't sell this type of printer by collecting samples of the ink."

The manager seemed very confused. He blinked, and regarded them each in turn. "You need to collect a sample of my printer ink?"

Sara tried very hard not to smile. Clearly, the entire place was very unassuming, and not well accustomed to the notions of real world things like murder and conspiracy. She imagined that if Nick wasn't in their line of work... and/or had never experienced the Gordons... that he would have been very much like the charming, but red-faced manager she was talking to now.

"Yes, sir," she confirmed. "I need a little from all your ink batches to compare to this card. And maybe a sample of printed material, as well. To narrow down which machine may have been used..."

He did not much care for the idea, that was clear. But he didn't argue. He called his own higher-ups to ask them, which required Sara and Morgan to patiently explain the situation to about three more people before finally being given clearance to collect what they came to collect. During the process, Morgan continued to exchange soap opera-esque looks with the young man they'd first spoken with, whose participation in the scenario was becoming more and more obsolete.

Sara kept shaking her head. But she did say "thank you" on their way out. A glance at the clock had her asking herself how that had only taken twenty minutes. On their way back to the lab, Morgan teased about the idea of quitting CSI for printing work.

"Alright..." Sara sighed, when the evidence was splayed out in front of them. "Ink or machines for you, Morgan?"

"Oh, definitely machines," answered Morgan, like it should have gone without saying. "I could use the humming sounds to keep me up and moving."

Realizing that a humming sound would have had the opposite effect on her, Sara nodded over-enthusiastically, and slid the machine sample stack over the table. They split to each end of the room, and worked with the same postcard at different computers to compare their samples to their evidence. It didn't take Sara as long as it took Morgan. But then, it didn't take her much time, either. And soon, they were reconvened.

"I don't think the machines at the printing place were used at all," Morgan assessed. "I couldn't find any comparison matches at all in here."

Sara frowned. "Really? That's weird..."

"Tell me about it." Morgan placed a hand on each hip. "Whoever did it, did it away from Pressing Printers."

Sara looked down at her own results, and blinked a couple of times. "It was done with ink from the place."

Then, it was Morgan's turn to frown. "Seriously...? So someone stole ink from Pressing Printers to forge a help message, and then made it somewhere else? Before dropping it in an old lady's bag...?"

"That's what it looks like," Sara sighed. She tossed the lab report down on the table, and leaned against the edge of it. "Someone went way out of their way to cover this one up."

"Yeah... But they haven't done a very good job," Morgan commented. "I mean, we have lots of evidence."

"But none of it goes anywhere," rebutted Sara. "That's the mark of a real genius murderer. I never told you about Hannah West, did I...?"

Morgan shrugged, and folded her arms. For a moment, there seemed to be nothing further to say. In the corner of her eye, Sara could see Morgan really grinding away in her mind for solutions. She knew she should be doing the same, but the cold air that always seemed to be drafting through the lab – and was rarely a comfortable thing – reminded her of waking up on Nick's warm couch. And how much she wished she hadn't come in to work...

"Hey," Morgan suddenly spoke up. "Wait a second... The box!"

Sara broke from her reverie. "The box...?"

"Yeah, and the watch! We never looked them over!"

Sara blinked, and growled more at the wall than anything else. "I thought you dusted all the jewelry–"

"–Yeah, but the box, itself, I mean. And the watch! The Rollex...! We should look at them."

Sara took a second to let it sink in. Then she nodded, and followed Morgan for the evidence vault with a semi-renewed sense of vigor.

"So, what are you thinking?" she asked, as they hauled it down from the shelf.

"Well, serial check never led us wrong... What if we start there?" suggested Morgan.

Sara grinned. That look Nick had always called "toothy"... "I'll start with the watch."

* * *

There was a distinctly taunting feel about the lack of sufficient evidence for a warrant. Nick sat and stared at the same notepad, over and over... He could almost see the cartoony mouth and eyes forming a smirk on its pages. Could almost hear the words of the high-pitched voices that would have been used in the kinds of things his nephews and nieces watched on TV...

"I hate you," it simpered at him in his mind.

"Oh, stop mocking me," he mumbled, and flung it off the desk he was borrowing.

It landed right by the door. But his eyes did not register Sara's foot stepping by it until she was offering it back to him. He sighed, and just allowed himself to feel the little worms of embarrassment to crawl over and off of him. He would get through it faster that way.

"Thank you," he said, and accepted the little pad. "And sorry. I've just... run out of room, here."

She seemed to think it over for a moment. It was almost as uncomfortable as the sound of Russell's old clock ticking away, up on the shelves that used to house Grissom's various oddities. And when she finally moved, it was without saying anything. She just slid one of the chairs that would normally be for Russell's visitors around, and set it down next to his. His eyes moved over to her, but not the rest of his head. She set something down in front of him.

"What's this?" he asked, taking it between two fingers. "The jewelry bo–?"

But his words were cut off. There was the unmissable feeling of a head... her head... resting on his shoulder. His eyes closed for a moment. He sighed...

"All things considered... I'm glad I got you for all this."

Part of him had been expecting another sarcastic remark. "All things considered, huh?" he chuckled.

He removed his hands from his head, and let them fall onto the desk. Sitting by his left hand, his phone shook again.

She looked down at it, and something flashed across her face that he could only think of as 'agitated'. "Is there anyway you could tell me who that is?" she said.

He thought about it for a moment... But when he could see no reason not to, he nodded, and slid the phone from one hand to the other... and then set it down in hers. She didn't lift her head, at first.

But when she'd had a moment or two to read it, she sat up straight. "Your grandfather died?"

He felt almost forty years younger when he looked over at her. "Yeah..." he exhaled. "My grandpa died..."

"Oh, God, Nick. I'm sorry..."

Her arms came up around his neck. Her chin replaced her temple on his shoulder. He returned the favor somewhat greedily. Like a dry plant sucking up water... And for a moment or two, they just stayed like that. And memories of his family... his life, in Texas, grandfather or otherwise, flooded in like water through a broken beaver's dam.

And then, there was a voice. "Uhm... I assume he took it well?"

They leaned back, and looked away from each other to the doorway. Where the voice had come from, and where Morgan seemed to be awkwardly out of place in the frame.

"Oh..." Sara said, in a hushed tone. "I don't know. I haven't told him yet."

Nick couldn't help the slight smile that came to his lips, then. "Told me what?"

When she answered him, her voice was much quieter than he could ever remember it sounding when she was talking evidence. "We found something interesting about the postcard we followed up on."

He leaned on his elbow on the desk, and braced himself for a new challenge. "Lemme hear it," he groaned.

She seemed to know what he was thinking. She laughed once before she reassured him. "It's progress, Nick. Something good, actually."

"Oh...?"

"Yeah," pressed Morgan. "We did a little research on the jewelry box and the watch, too."

He blinked, and puzzlement came over his features.

Sara put a hand on his shoulder. "The postcard was made with ink from the printing place. But not with any of their machines..."

"Yeah, in fact... it was made with a machine from 1993," interjected Morgan. "The same year as the jewelry box. Which came from Brandon's mother's place."

A sort of stun began to settle on Nick. He looked up from his knees to where Sara was sitting across from him.

"And that's not all," she added. "The hands in the Rollex were made with small, but completely legitimate diamond pieces. And they traced back to Woman's Best Friend."

It didn't take long for elation to replace the sense of discouragement he'd felt moments earlier. "So, we have it!"

He jumped up and almost ran for the door. Sara and Morgan didn't catch what he meant at first... and didn't catch up to him in the hall for a few seconds more.

"We have what?" inquired Morgan.

"The warrant we need for the place," he replied, spirits unhampered by the unreasonable annoyance over their lack of foreknowledge about what he meant.

"Oh..." offered Sara. Though she still clearly did not quite get what was going on...

Nick laughed, and picked up his pace a little bit while they went. "We needed a way to get in to Madame Challal's, so now we–"

But then, he almost ran right into the suited men by the lab doors.

"Whoa!" he exclaimed. "Excuse me, gentlemen–"

"Uh, Mr. Stokes?" one of them said.

He stopped. "Yeah?"

"Excellent. I'm Mr. Worthinton. With IA...?"

That did it. In the words of the dad from _Finding Nemo_ – something his nephews and nieces definitely watched a lot of – "good feelings gone."


	14. Pretense

The air in Ecklie's office was considerably less comfortable than Nick had thought it would be. Earlier, it had sounded like the whole interview was just a formality, and not a major investigation into his integrity. But Mr. Worthinton's partner was one of the tightest hard-asses Nick could remember seeing in a long time. Even when IA were involved in some more serious things...

"Okay, Mr. Stokes," began the aforementioned hard-ass. "I see you've been down this path a few times before. You must know how the drill works by now."

"Uh huh." Nick nodded.

"Then you probably know what my first question is going to be," continued hard-ass, eyes stoically staring at the wall. "Describe the event."

Nick began with the locker room. Talked about Sara, and seeing her after a hard day... Then following her out into the dark parking lot, with the wedding ring in his hand... And then, finally, seeing her in her car, with the guy, and the gun.

"I couldn't see who it was in the back seat," he explained. "I just could see the gun. I didn't think about it much beyond that."

Mr. Worthinton played the role of the scriber. He scribbled furiously on the paper in front of him, and looked up occasionally as if to show polite interest. Which, to Nick, seemed incredibly unfitting for the circumstance...

"But did you fire right away, Mr. Stokes, _that_ is the question," pressed hard-ass.

Nick nodded his head immediately. The memory was a little blurry, but he was certain there hadn't been a delay. Other than making sure he was aiming at the gunman, and not Sara...

"Yes. As soon as I knew it was him I was aiming at..."

"'He', Mr. Stokes? I thought you couldn't see who it was."

"I couldn't. But I could hear some distinct male shouting, at random intervals. Kind of a smooth sounding voice, actually..."

"That's not how I would describe most men's voices, Mr. Stokes," challenged hard-ass.

Unhindered by the accusation, Nick flicked his eyebrows up. "If you'd heard this one, you would have. He was stressed, but distinctly male."

In the corner of Nick's eye, Worthinton shrugged. Nick bit down on his lip to keep them from turning up; a smile would look bad in an investigation.

Hard-ass straightened up, and adjusted his tie. "And after the event, your sheriff tells me you changed your shirt and came here to the interrogation room?"

"That's correct."

"I see. And then you went out with Ms. Sidle?"

Nick's torso flinched a little. "'Went out'? We had a dinner, yeah. Long day, you know..."

Hard-ass lifted his eyebrows slowly. "I do. But unfortunately, I'm going to need to know about it. If I'm to do my job properly, I need to know that nothing unscrupulous took place afterwards."

Nick folded his arms, and blinked confusedly at the wall behind an amused-looking Ecklie. "You want to know if we slept together," he skipped right to the point.

"That would hardly be unscrupulous, Mr. Stokes," rebutted hard-ass. "Questionable, but not criminal."

"'Questionable'..." Nick repeated.

"What I need to know is if you and Ms. Sidle were in conspiracy with anyone."

Nick did a double take. "What...?"

Then Ecklie, too, appeared confused.

"We've been encountering this event, or others similar to it, in several crime labs, recently," clarified Worthinton. "We have reports of shootings targeting law enforcement members of all kinds."

"What's conspiratorial about that?" spoke up Ecklie. "Risk is almost a perk of law enforcement."

"If you saw the numbers of incidents so close together, Sheriff Ecklie, you would understand," answered hard-ass. "It's like the worst possible outcome you can imagine for a wild drug party full of dumb teenagers."

Perhaps not caring for his partner's assessment of the situation, Worthinton shot a look his way before cutting back in. "All we're saying is we need to cover our options. We hadn't originally intended for all this. We just saw that this was our 100,000th case in the last two weeks. And even for law enforcement, that's uncommon."

"So what do you say, Mr. Stokes?" pressed hard-ass. "Investigative jail time, or a look into your private life?"

Nick squeezed his fist in his other hand behind the desk. But could not imagine skipping out on the team, then... He looked up at the smug-looking big suit, and nodded.

"What do you need from me, then?"

* * *

Madame Challal looked slightly stunned when Morgan presented her with the warrant. She gripped its edges with both hands almost hard enough to tear it. "He was serious?!" she shrieked. "He is really going to dig through _my_ business in search of clues about a _murder_?! Of an insignificant, old woman whom I didn't even _know_?!"

Morgan opened her mouth to speak, but Sara got to it first. "Ms. Challal–"

"–Madame," corrected the shallowly-distressed woman.

Sara narrowed her eyes. "Every life is valuable. And rather you were involved in this or not, there is at least one base that needs to be covered, here. Now get out of the way, or the officer will be carrying out the part of the warrant nobody wants to see."

Mitchell crossed his arms, and looked down at her over an imaginary pair of glasses. Madame Challal's eyes sprinted between him, and Sara and Morgan several times before she flung the warrant back at them, and stormed away from the desk.

"Take them anywhere they ask," she barked at the girl she was leaving by the desk.

Sara sighed, and brushed her fingers through her hair. An incident was never pretty... and she just hadn't been in the mood, either way. "Alright, then: let's get into the vault."

The small-looking young woman looked nervously between them, and nodded at twice the necessary speed before motioning for them to follow her. Which they did, down a couple of twisting hallways from the front to the back, and then up some stairs. The kind of stairs, Sara noted, that were merely steel platforms, shaped up into steps and walkways, with railings on them. And as they went, she spotted a few signs hanging on the walls, which she figured mostly served as directories for the customers. Because there were none on the steel stairs and decks. Which, she uncomfortably realized, were exposed to all of the surroundings...

"We, uh... we have several vaults, actually," the nervous desk worker squeaked. "Wer-were you looking for any particular one?"

Morgan held the bag with the watch out to her. "Do you know where we could examine the kind of jewelry used to make the hands on the clock?"

Small hands gave the evidence bag a little turn. Sara could feel Morgan glance at her... but had learned from Grissom that the most convenient evidence was usually found on the faces of the people they encountered in their investigations... And the young girl's was very puzzled, for the most part.

Until, suddenly, it was not. "Oh!" she exclaimed. "Oh, my, that's old... That may have been there back when my grandmother worked here! This way..."

There was a lot of twisting and turning to get to the vaults. Frankly, Sara wondered if this was really the best way to design a building for a business like this; if those fairly-insecure-feeling stairs ever gave in, then that would cut off their only access to the vaults.

And the one they were looking for, it happened, was close to the last one in the top hallway. Sara counted only four or maybe five more behind it before reaching the very back wall... "Is this the original layout?" she inquired.

"I believe so," the girl replied, sounding more bold. "I've got some pretty old pictures of this place at home. I've never seen anything in it I didn't recognize, or any major changes besides the decoration."

Morgan took a deep breath as the vault door swung open. "It smells musty in here."

Sara mimicked her... but felt quite differently about the smell that entered _her_ nostrils. "It does not," she argued. "It smells... like blood."

She reached for her flashlight, and clicked it on before it was out of her vest pocket.

"Oh! Let me help," offered the girl by the door.

She flicked on a large, industrial light switch, and suddenly the room was lit up. Enough so that Sara squinted against the shine from all the jewelry on the shelves.

But as her eyes began to adjust, she saw that there was, indeed, blood. Blood... but nothing else. She sighed, and leaned down on her knees for a second or two.

"Oh, great..." remarked the girl, with a voice that suddenly sounded a little scared and meek again. "Madame Challal is going to be angry..."

But Sara didn't care about that. And guessing from Morgan's very next sentence, neither did she. "So is Nick..."

* * *

But they didn't have to discover how Nick felt for a while. It was almost an hour before he showed up, looking quite disgruntled and put off with the world. When he came in, there was a surprisingly bright light streaming in through the large window behind him. He looked quite determined.

Sara rose to her feet from the pile of scattered rings she was squatted down by. "Hey," she greeted. "How did it go?"

His shoulders slumped a little. "Not badly, for me."

She waited for him to continue. But when he didn't, she motioned for more information behind a tired sigh.

Instead of returning the agitation in kind, like she might have expected given the nature of things, he answered through a laugh. "They decided I wasn't conspiring with you, or anyone else that may have been faking an attempt on your life. I guess they saw us at the restaurant on the security footage they pulled. From the cafe we were in... They saw you there, too, Morgan."

She made a "YES!" gesture with her arm, silently, and took another photograph.

"They decided we weren't putting the whole thing on?" rephrased Sara, a frown of puzzlement on her face. "What, they saw an indicator on our records, or something?"

"Not that I know of," replied Nick. "But they've had a large number of shootings on law enforcement, lately."

Sara scratched her head. "Why are we surprised by that? The risk of it is like a given for the job. You just kind of hope it isn't you when you sign up for it."

Nick's voice dropped, along with his eyes. "Yeah. Been there..."

He fell quiet for a moment, and she gave his arm a hard pat. He looked up from his feet, and directed his gaze back at her.

"Anyway... they have to submit my case to the board, and all that. But they've decided I'm in good standing."

Sara started to smile. But then something else occurred to her... "What about the missing evidence?"

Nick shrugged. "They never brought it up. I did give the rest of my report to Ecklie, but he was preoccupied with the details on the big 'conspiracy', I guess."

Sara could not look away from him. While he talked, she felt that weakness come over her again. It was a strange feeling. One she didn't remember having much in her life... but something she had never quite been able chase away, or ignore, despite her best efforts, at times... The thing that wanted nothing more than to know he wasn't going anywhere. That his automatic reaction to save her life wasn't going to cut her down another team member.

"I'm sure he'll show it to the IA, when his conscious catches up," Nick was saying. "He was a little iffy on them when they were questioning me, but we all know Ecklie. He'll– Umph!"

As his voice had faded back into audibility, she had thrown herself against him like a paper blowing in the wind. He was much bigger than he appeared when she was back a distance from him. He wasn't that much taller... Close enough to her height that she felt like she could squeeze the life out of him, which she was really trying to do. But higher enough that she felt like could sink into him for a moment, as well.

His chest vibrated a little with his chuckle. "It's okay, Sara." And he gave the top of her head a little bit of a brush with his palm, the other arm kindly returning her sudden embrace.

"Yes. Well..." She stepped back, and rubbed her weary eyes. "Anyway... Here's what we've got."

She caught the slightest edge of approval rolling off of him before she turned to show him their crime scene. He followed her to their messy and inefficient setup, and knelt down by her to look at what they had.

"We found the blood... well, everywhere," explained Morgan. "I took a couple of samples here, and Sara took one from over there."

"I also found some fingerprints," Sara chimed in. "They weren't in the blood, or on the light switch, or anything straightforward like that."

"Of course not," Nick added.

She grinned, and continued through a single laugh. "No, we couldn't have that, right?  
They were on the window sill at the back. Way up there..."

She pointed behind her, and his eyes widened just a bit. "Wow..." was all he commented with.

"Yep. There's a window in here," said Morgan. "Which kind of defeats the vault purpose–"

"But here's the tricky thing," Sara interrupted. "There's no broken glass, or anything like that. So, if someone was trying to break in here, what were they after?"

Nick stood up, hands gripping his hips. "Good question. Why don't I get a look? Where's the ladder you used?"

"'Ladder'? No way," she responded. "I used a lift. It's parked right out the door."

And, true to his word, Nick went to get the lift. But he wasn't as good with it as she imagined he might have been with a ladder. He steered it rather inexpertly, bumping into one of the shelves and knocking a few of the products on it off. Sara and Morgan laughed at it while they picked it up, but he didn't seem very thrilled. Instead, he navigated it to the window in silence... where he didn't seem able to make lifting the platform look comedic.

"You could have just asked me," Sara called playfully.

"Mmm," he kind of grunted back.

She knew, it felt, why he had gone stoic, right away. But rather than duck behind that dark anticipation, she approached the lift to see if she could help some other way. That he might appreciate, that was...

But he wasn't up there two minutes before his voice reached her ears again, ringing with a slight edge of competitive triumph. "I think I did find something you missed."

She glared at her feet, and inhaled slowly. "Yeah?" she let out on the exhale.

"Yeah. Did you notice the large chips in the wall on the outside?"

She looked up from her suddenly-weary position, with genuine curiosity. "What?"

"The chips in the brick on the outside... Did you see it?"

She paused... bade goodbye to a little bit of her pride... and shook her head. "That's a negative."

The lift began to descend, bringing her suddenly-stiff coworker with it. "Well... I wish I hadn't, either. 'Cause now I've got to climb around out there."

"I can do it," she said, simply.

"No, thanks. I've got it. Did you wanna bring the lift, though?"

That's what she thought. She waved a hand dismissively, and he left. And as she watched him – blown away by his hypocritical accusations of mood swings – she thought she might just abandon any pretense of service, from that point on.


	15. Override Me In

The wind had really picked up. As he steered the lift around the pavement to the outside of the building, he couldn't help feeling extremely grateful that Sara had declined to go with him. She and Morgan were finishing up in the vault, and he had an eyes-free stretch of time to mess up his lift maneuvers. A shudder of embarrassment ran through him again, as his banging into the shelves refused to stop playing itself over and over in his head...

But miraculously... even though it had seemed like it might tip in the wind... he made it to the edge of the wall beneath the window. The crime-based possibilities ran through his mind on his way up. Had someone been trying to break into the vault? Or had they actually succeeded...?

The former seemed considerably more likely when he saw how well fortified it was. Through the glass, Sara and Morgan appeared to be leaving. Neither of them looked back at him until right before the door closed. Sara's eyes darted up to the window, and then away. He flinched a little at the suddenness of it. But she did not look up again.

He sighed, and reached into his belt loop for the scraper he'd put there. The chips in the brick were not huge, save for one. Getting a sample of it would be messy. But that was the nature of the job, sometimes... and if he wanted to stay out of trouble for the missing evidence, and the IA shooting inquiry, he'd better do his duties – including the messier ones – on the double.

He half-expected the mocking of his life when he descended the lift five minutes later. There was a little plaster on his beard, and quite a bit more on his shirt. But when Sara and Morgan took his bagged moldings, neither seemed inclined to comment. Except for Morgan passing him a towel from the back of their GMC...

Feeling badly about his earlier reaction, he held his arms out, and tried to crack a smile. "Anyone want a picture?" he tried, before cleaning it off.

Still without words, the answer was a "no". He frowned at his towel, where the plaster was already beginning to harden a little. Well, when all else failed, turn back to work...

So instead, he tried: "Right. Think we've got enough for examination?"

Sara nodded, and applied her sunglasses from her vest pocket. Morgan skimmed over their notes collection.

Nick sighed, and gave up. "Alright, alright... Let's get back to the lab. See what we can find... And I don't know if anyone wants in, but I'm gonna talk to Madame Challal about the break-in attempt."

"Sounds good," answered Morgan. "We'll take the evidence, then, Sara?"

"Yep."

The ride back was still kind of awkward-feeling, even though he was the only one in the car. Sara and Morgan were behind him, and they appeared in the rear-view to be talking rather animatedly to each other. Morgan was driving, and Sara was drinking a lot of water. He kept glancing at her all the way back to the parking lot. She must've gone through three bottles before they arrived...

But pulling in, they saw that they had another issue on hand. Brass was out front, pulling a young guy in a dark blue hoodie up the front steps to the police department. As Nick climbed out of the GMC, he could hear some colorful protests issuing from said young guy. He exchanged a couple of glances with his team members, and they began to haul what they had inside for inspection.

It wasn't long after setting up that the call came. "Hey! We found Martin Trem. Wanna talk to him?"

"Yeah." Nick pressed his fingers to his other ear, more to drown out Sara and Morgan's background speculations than anything else. "I'll be there in a few."

 _Beep_.

"You'll be where?"

He looked over, and saw that Sara seemed to have decided she was speaking to him again. Rather from the laugh she'd obviously just shared with Morgan, or because her mood was swinging again, he didn't know. It was so like her... And quickly, this time... It made him smile.

"Interrogation," he answered. "That guy they were dragging up the stairs was Martin Trem."

"Oh," she replied simply. "Maybe we'd better ask our student to sit in on it."

"No time. But see if you can get ahold of him for other reasons. We could use the extra help."

* * *

"I didn't do anything wrong!" was the protest being shouted when Nick reached the interrogation room.

"Then how did your spit end up at a murder scene?!" Brass was shouting back.

Almost as if he was seeing his face from the outside, Nick could just envision the weariness setting in. But he didn't let it stop him. He opened the door, and dove right in.

"Gentlemen," he greeted, more as a sarcastic formality. "Catch me up."

"Our young... guest... here, says he doesn't know how he ended up drooling on the sink at our crime scene," Brass began to explain.

"That's 'cause I didn't–"

"–wait your turn!" Brass cut off. And then back to Nick, "So, we're having a little chat. Just until he jogs his memory enough to remember how such personal DNA came to be at our victim's house. In such a personal, homeowner-oriented room."

Sounded reasonable. Nick turned from Brass to the suspect, and cocked his head slightly to the side. "He makes a compelling argument, man. Spit's kind of hard to leave lying around without being somewhere. You're gonna need a real good alibi."

"Try my girlfriend," shot back Trem. "I was with _her_ that night. I can show you!"

Nick ran a hand over his head, through his hair. "You can show us... How?"

"My cell, man! My cell...! I've got a picture."

"Well... You also have your phone," hinted Brass. "Make with the evidence, then."

Shaky hands reached into a t-shirt pocket, and withdrew a smartphone. After a couple of sharp breaths, and some dramatic finger swipes, there it was. There was no denying it...

Nick sighed, and let his head fall on the table. "Yep. Time stamp, right there."

Brass' attitude changed like Sara's. From outraged to opportunistic in a flash... "Alright." He took the other chair and dragged it up to the table beside Nick. "Then maybe we got off on the wrong foot. If you weren't there around the time of the actual murder, then you must have been there at some point. Because we have the evidence: we know your saliva came to rest on the kitchen sink, somehow."

"Yeah, I don't know that, either," insisted Trem.

Nick exhaled a tight breath, and looked the young suspect up and down. When he'd stopped to take a closer look at their case file, he'd seen that Trem had landed in the system because he'd been caught steeling barbecue rib sandwiches from his school's cafeteria. A petty thief... And he looked just like it, too. Sagging clothes, unkempt hair, bad smell, and a baseball cap turned off to the side... It all contributed to the image that this kid had about as much motivation in life as he probably had bristles left on his toothbrush. If he even owned one, and Nick wasn't entirely sure he would bet on that...

Brass must've caught to the same vibe. Because he leaned his head down a little before he spoke. Or cut to the bone, rather... "Look, kid: your criminal record is small, and that one entry is punk play. We've been surprised before, but I can't say I'm too shocked that you didn't do it. But at the same time, you've obviously done something. Or you know something we don't. And that's what we're looking for. It's your quickest way out of trouble."

"Hey, I'm hardcore!" shrieked Trem. "I know how to hang with the rough!"

"Obviously," Nick reinforced Brass with. "You're handling this so well. Your hands were shaking like a leaf when you were showing us your cell phone. Which we'll take possession of, and use however we legally need to if you don't clean up. And quick... Tell us what you know."

"Uh uh!" Trem refused quite adamantly. "I ain't no snitch! You can toss me in the brig, whatever you want! I ain't talkin'!"

"If we do that, your whole life could be over. You'd be an official suspect, with an official arrest on you. Think about it," urged Brass.

"Good! Ain't nobody about to doubt my edge!"

Nick rolled his eyes, and decided to take a backseat on the matter. Because if anyone could break through, it would have to be Brass. And the irritation was taking him to the kinds of unprofessional levels he had sunk to during his investigation of the McBride case.

* * *

After several more increasingly-inventive layers of "no, no, no", Brass gave up. And gave Trem exactly what he wanted... An escorting officer led him away right before their eyes, and both could not help shaking their heads.

"What did he go to school for?" asked Nick, as the young man's misguided life began to roll down the hill with the person it belonged to.

"Get this: criminal justice," answered Brass.

Nick turned and looked at him with an upward flick of the eyebrows. "Shit..."

"I know. Totally inappropriate, right? For such a bizarre head case... I'd almost think he did it to learn how to _avoid_ the law..."

"If he did, then he's more serious about his criminal lifestyle than we thought."

"Nick!"

The namesake looked around. Down the hall, Greg was approaching them with a wide wave. He looked tired, but surprisingly eager. He came to a stop just before running into Nick.

"How's the case going? Supervisor...?"

He jabbed Nick's gut with his elbow, and the latter was momentarily seized by the urge to yank his hair.

Instead, he settled on a false groan. "Careful, man. I think I banged myself up a little at that last scene."

"Oh...! Sorry. Where's Sara?"

With an unexpected rush came the unexpected sadness. In all his recent thinking of past times, there was one memory of a dynamic that Nick suddenly realized he didn't like to dwell on. And it came out with the reverent affection in which Greg had asked his question. A deflated tone came to rest on Nick's voice, and it would not go away, even as he tried to clear his throat to reply.

"She's with Morgan. They're looking over our evidence. But, hey, what're you doing here already?"

"Oh, I couldn't sleep. Lots going on, you know?"

"There's always a lot going on. And you don't want to be in the middle of _all_ of it."

"Well, probably not, but I'm pretty keen on being in the middle of this one. Girl at the desk says this has been a hot one. Could you use some help? Catch me up! Override me in on the case!"

In the corner of his eye, Nick could see Brass turning back to look at him. And that was it: being annoyed with Greg's budding enthusiasm and hopeful wishes was not a good reason to exclude him from the proceedings. Sara would be more angry, Morgan would be disappointed, and it would not look like a good call by the covering shift leader.

So he nodded, and motioned for Greg to follow him back to the lab. "We'll get ya clocked in while the ladies are giving us the rundown on the evidence."

"Good luck!" called Brass after them. "And, Nicky...! I'll call you when we find Brandon!"

Nick waved over his shoulder. "Thanks, Jim," he called back, with half the enthusiasm.

"'Brandon'?" inquired Greg.

"Yep. Little liar... Don't worry, we'll get you all up to speed..."

* * *

When Nick returned, with Greg in tow, Sara sighed a gulp's worth of air in relief, and ran to fling her arms around her closest, dorkiest little friend.

"Greg!" she exclaimed. "I was getting so close to texting you..."

He returned the hug with a little hesitation, and she could just imagine the expression he was wearing as he said: "Really? I never thought..."

"Oh, you haven't been in on this one," Morgan added, coming over to them.

She all but inserted herself between him and Sara, on the premise of getting a greeting hug in, too. Sara could feel the bittersweet sensation of a snobbery that came from knowing something someone else didn't know. It clambered up her chest and left her through her smug smile. Forgetting that she was supposed to be kinda, sorta mad at him, her eyes darted to Nick.

Who was standing behind Greg by the door, eyes averted from the scene, and moving his super secret management card between his fingers absentmindedly... Her smugness began to fade as she registered his depleted appearance. The one he usually only let show, these days, when he thought no one else was looking... His hair seemed to have collapsed somewhat from its partially-neat state. His eyelids hung down, as if he was fighting the urge to fall asleep. Something must have been on his mind, and it couldn't have been good; he was breathing in short, quiet, but rapid bursts, and the worry lines on his face were in full swing. His lips shook once or twice. He lifted one hand, and scratched the side of his neck. Then he rubbed one temple, and straightened up, though he did so without looking in her direction.

But still, some kind of upset lingered on him. And she didn't think it was anything familiar, unless she really strained her mind back to a few times before, over their long years' working and playing together... She sighed. And rubbed her wrist with her other hand's fingertips... and opened her mouth to talk to him.

Right as he seemed to decide that enough greeting was enough. "Alright," he stated, quite simply. "Let's get Greg on the clock, and fill him in on the night's events. God only knows when Russell is coming..."

He gave the laptop on the desk a yank, and it slid against his thigh, where it stopped. Sara's empathetic discouragement seemed to vanish with the sliding of his card through the reader, and the zipping of his fingers over the touch screen's number keys. From empty and low to tall and expanded, he eyed Greg with the utmost in unnatural confidence, and flapped the laptop shut.

"You're all in." And then to the ladies of the room: "What have we got?"

"A summary," Morgan said, mostly to Greg. And then to Nick: "In evidence, too."

He nodded once with a single smile that didn't reach his eyes. But Morgan didn't seem to notice. She turned back to Greg and kept going. Sara felt the life of her excitement slide to the floor, for the fiftieth time that day. Where she suddenly wished, so very dearly, that she could go, herself for a lengthy nap.


	16. Overlooked

"So, this all started with a bad smell," Morgan began explaining to Greg. "Some people went to look in a window in this suburb, and saw a dead body lying there. They called it in."

"And it smelled... _very_ bad," Sara interjected.

"It did," confirmed Morgan. "And what we found there was a disgusting mess. Alcohol bottles, puke, sperm, and blood all over the place."

"Nick found most of it," said Sara.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, he registered that she had pointed to him. He nodded, and offered a short grin before tuning them out part of the way again.

"Of course," Greg stated. "Who else...?"

"But, what we did find ourselves was a diamond, which led us via serial check to a small jewelry store owned by a group of real oddballs," continued Sara. "And one of the ladies there – Clara – told us that she didn't know anything about the situation."

"She did tell us that the diamond had sold to an old lady, though," said Morgan.

"Who's in the morgue," added Sara.

"But Clara was lying," Morgan clarified.

Nick couldn't help the slight smile that crept up his face. Greg was looking politely between the two women as he tried to keep up. It was so very like he had done when he'd first become a CSI. And that was a much better memory.

"She did know what was going on, and she did sleep with our victim. Vigorously..." explained Sara. "We found vaginal lubrication that matched right to her."

She pointed at the highlight on the case file, and Greg skimmed over it with his eyes.

"Okay..." he said simply, and formally. "But where does the victim factor in to all this?"

Sara and Morgan looked at each other, and then each at Nick. "That's what we still don't know," Morgan said. "We're not quite sure where he actually fits into this mess. There doesn't seem to be much of a motive for killing him from anyone."

"He was a complete pervert," Sara said. "He had sex with pretty much anything."

"He was an alcoholic from hell," Morgan expounded. "He seems to have spent his whole life that way... But it's not what killed him."

Pushing the thoughts of his family to the back of his mind, Nick spoke up. "He was a bad relative. Didn't treat his mother or nephew very well..." He stepped up to the table, and ran his fingers over the case file's pages. "But his nephew is the liar I told you about when you first came to the hallway." He flicked through the pages, and withdrew the photograph that had been taken of Brandon when he'd first come to the police station. "He came rushing up to the house like he had no idea his uncle was dead. And he may or may not have known his grandmother was, but he at least lied about the boozer on the floor."

"Put on a real good show, too," came a scratchy voice.

They looked over to the doorway. It was Brass, standing dutifully with his hands folded in front of him.

"I thought I'd come over and tell you in person, Nicky: we can't find Brandon."

Nick dropped his gaze. His eyes, it seemed, moved themselves back and forth across the dirty details of the floor. Of course they couldn't...

"We went to the warehouse he left us, and we found out he'd been fired two weeks ago," Brass elaborated. "They gave us his home address on their files, though. It's empty. Not a single sign of life. Looks like nobody's been home in a month or two, at least..."

Nick raised his head, and began to weigh the choices... There was always Sara; pissed or not, he knew she would go if he asked. And Greg was eager, and also familiar. And Morgan had been his favorite of the new additions to their lab since all the changes; she would be no less the merry if he brought her with. But someone would have to go... With the missing evidence still hanging over his head, anything too solo would look irresponsible, at the very least.

But he knew who it would be before he turned and looked at her.

* * *

And so did she.

So she didn't wait for him to say it. "Yes."

There was a wave of calmness, then. The distinctly uncomfortable appearance he'd been covered in seemed to melt. Though the tone of his voice crawled down a little bit...

"Thank you," he managed to whisper, through the husky drawl of his home land.

And she couldn't help but smile at it. And stare at the one who made it.

Even if he didn't stare back. "Greg, what I'd like you to do is go over all the evidence, top to bottom. Fresh eyes could really help us. And Morgan, could you and Sara give me the evidence part of that summary, now? We still need at least something on Martin Trem and Madame Challal. So far, we got nothing."

"You mean, we _had_ nothing," Morgan replied. She clapped her hands together, and reached for the box by his hand. "We've actually got something on both of them."

Nick frowned. "We do?"

"Yeah. Check this out. Sara?" She tossed the bag in her hand to the person in question, and pulled two of them out, herself.

Sara smacked two hands around the bag in the air, and spun it around to take a good look at it. Suppressing quite effectively,she hoped, the irritation of an unknown object flying across her vision...

It was the fingerprint analysis read-out from the window in the vault at Woman's Best Friend. "Oh!" she exclaimed, as the memory of the discovery dawned on her. "That's right..."

Nick leaned in close. The heat from his body seemed to bounce on the side of her arm. "Whatcha got?" he asked, a little louder than gently.

She shuddered, and tightened her grip on the bag. And her answer dropped to match his previous tone. But all she said was, "It's Martin Trem."

She looked up when he didn't say anything. Something flicked across his face, but she waited. It felt like it was his turn to talk.

"His fingerprints, then?"

But that was Brass. She redirected her line of vision with a deep breath. "Yes," she answered. "He was up there, in the vault. Doing something to the window."

"And he wasn't the only one," Morgan said, sounding much like the wait to reveal what she had found had been really hard on her. "The blood samples: all three of them..." She slapped each report down on the table. "All Madame Challal's."

"All of them?" asked Nick.

"That's right," Morgan answered. "She had a struggle, at the very least. Who knows who with?"

"Let's find out," Brass said. "There's more than enough here for a warrant to search with."

"Yeah. Even if she persists in being a bitch," said Nick. "But nothing, still, on the old woman?"

"Sorry, captain," Morgan replied, sounding nervous. "Nothing else, so far. And we're still waiting on David for that autopsy..."

"Oh, yeah," said Nick. Confusion crept across his face. "I wonder what's taking so long..."

"Let's go and check it out," offered Sara. "He's probably just having a long day. God knows, we are. We can look on the way out."

Nick nodded, and grinned at her from still quite closely beside her. "Let's do that. And then we can head for Brandon's place."

For what felt like the millionth time, a new wind powered her sails. Sara gave him a thumbs up and clicked her tongue, much to his sudden joy. As they walked towards the elevator to go to the morgue, he reverted to the familiar man she had known for so long. And though it still showed – the back-shelved sadness – his theorizing seemed to make it go away for a little bit. Most of his theories were, in her opinion, a little far fetched, but she played bobble head quite happily all the way down the cold hall to the morgue, just to see that confidence come back to his form.

But then, he said something in his hypothesizing that struck her quite suddenly. "I mean, for all we know... Brandon's not even related to these people. We never did look much at the extra room in the original crime scene."

She stopped. "What?"

So did he. "His room? Or, at least, I think it would be his room. The one at the top of the stairs. We never had any real reason to check, but I hadn't thought until Greg asked the question: 'Where does the vic even go in this screwed up picture,' that we don't even know where Brandon does, either."

A myriad of notions ran through her mind. But she landed on the one that stood out the most, and decided to explain the others to him on their way to the scene. "We don't know where any of them fit," she half-muttered.

"I'm sorry...?" He leaned his ear down a little bit.

"We don't know where any of them fit," she repeated a little louder. "The whole thing is totally scattered."

"That's right," he affirmed. "That's what I was just thinking. I–"

She smiled, and clamped down on his lips with her fingers. His mustache tickled. "Yes, but Nick... What if it was set up that way?"

The way he scrunched his eyebrows, and aimed his eyes to the side in thought was borderline adorable with his lips pinched together.

"I bet if we go and look at that bedroom, we'll find something that someone just hasn't had time to take care of," she said.

"You sound like Morgan," he mumbled through her grip. "But you're probably right."

She nodded, feeling very much like Morgan in the way she was suddenly overcome by enthusiasm. "Let's go and take a look!"

* * *

"Hey, when was the last time you had a nice dinner?"

She looked up. He wasn't looking at her, but his question hung a little in the air, which seemed as multi-colored as the flashing lights from the top of the squad car Officer Mitchel had accompanied them in. She was at a loss for words, for just a moment or two.

"Uh...me...?" she tried.

Great. That sounded stupid... And he caught it, too. But instead of looking at her like she'd grown a second head – the way she suddenly remembered Hank had done a couple of times – he smiled, and lifted his eyes to hers.

"Yeah, Sara, you."

She bit down on her bottom lip with her upper teeth. "Well, there was last night... At the cafe, you remember..."

"I do. But I mean, like, a _nice_ dinner. Like, a place you went to with somebody, and didn't have to worry about the tab."

"Oh. I suppose the last time I went with Grissom. So, a while ago. Greg took me once, too, but that was before the divorce."

She didn't think she sounded too sad. And for the moment, she didn't _feel_ sad. But he still responded with a single, sympathetic nod, and looked away at the house. It was enough to sink her formal-feeling expression. But not enough to make her angry with him again.

Which, she figured, as they ascended the front steps, would not have made sense, anyway. _Had any of the recent times made sense...?_

She shook her head, and leaned against the side of the door frame, while Mitchell made the obligatory pass through the premises. It was a large house, so it took a few minutes. She admired the fearlessness with which he strode in, and the way it persisted in the sound of his quick and unabashed footsteps was amazing to her.

"How soon after meeting Officer Mitchell did you wish you had always known him?" she asked Nick.

He smiled, and let his head drop a little. "Immediately," he answered without a beat. "I doubt I would have suffered the Gordons if good ol' Mitch had been around."

A swirling sickness ran through her. "Oh... Oh, yeah..."

He looked up again. "Surely, you must have thought the same thing, once or twice. 'If only someone else had been there...'"

She nodded... more as a gesture to him than an honesty with herself. Although she had thought about it a couple of times from her own kidnapping experience, it had not necessarily been Mitchell who'd come to mind.

It was Mitchell who came through the front door rather suddenly in an unbroken stride, though. "All clear," he announced.

"Thanks," Nick said.

And he strode, himself right through the front. Sara followed, feeling rather uneven as she watched him whip out a flashlight to guide them through the dark.

"It doesn't smell quite as bad in here," he remarked. "Still a little decomp..."

She sniffed at the air, and frowned as the still-offensive odor penetrated her sense of smell. "Yeah," she still said. "I guess it's better than it was."

The upstairs room, which they went for immediately, was fairly empty. She pulled her own flashlight out of her pocket, and clicked it on. But when she realized what it had landed on, she jumped, and screamed like a girl right out of a horror movie.

"God...!"

Strong hands closed around her arms and shoulders, and she landed squarely on both feet. Nick's chest anchored the back of her neck, and the rest of him supported the rest of her.

"What?!" he exclaimed. "What is it?"

She steadied herself, and returned her beam of light to where it had been. On the head of a deer, lying face up on the hard, wooden floor.


	17. There

His hands were still on her sides. Where they had sunk after realizing the deer's head was just a plaque. Sara sighed, and leaned her head back on his shoulder. For a moment or so, he felt hazy, as if he wanted to mirror the movement.

But then she spoke, and stepped away to examine it closer. "A hunting family?"

He looked down at his hands, and rubbed his fingertips together. "Yeah. That's what I'd say."

She knelt down by it, and appeared to smile up at him in the dim light as she set her flashlight down, and applied gloves. "Something you did a lot of in Texas."

A horrible sensation settled in his stomach, as he realized he'd forgotten about his family happenings almost entirely in the last hour. But he nodded... and answered her question with a verbal "yes".

She nodded, too, in acceptance, and brushed her fingers closely on the antlers of the deer trophy... Since she seemed to have it very well under control, he decided to look for a discovery he could call his own.

But even his own footfalls unsettled him. There were no other noises anywhere nearby. The only window in the room did not face out to the front yard, where the officer was waiting, presumably on guard. There were slight flashes of the rotating police lights, illuminating the yard every time the bulb spun, but it only served to make the creepy place look even creepier.

At least, that's all it did at first... But then, as he went to step away from the window, he saw it: a little dent in the decaying wood of the sill. He stole a glance over at Sara, who was studiously dusting down the deer trophy for prints, and undid the velcro strap on one of his vest pockets to access a pair of his own gloves.

Setting down the kit on the floor of the attic-made-bedroom, he accidentally uncovered something else: a hollow sound from within the floor. He squinted at it, and tried again by lifting and dropping his kit several times on the same spot. In the window, the reflection he could see of Sara looking up, and her grinning at him somehow diminished the ridiculous feeling he felt. Perhaps, he thought, it was because they remembered Grissom doing similar things when he'd thought he was on to something...

But it had always worked for him, and it worked for Nick, too. Beneath the kit, there was a hole. Large enough for a finger to fit. And when he slid his own finger inside, it lifted as effortlessly as a handful of sand.

"Uh, Sara...?"

She must've found something good; her voice was light and willing. "Yeah?"

"Take a look at this." And her chin was at his shoulder in seconds.

It was a toolkit. Propped open, and loaded with tools that were covered in a red, smokey-looking fluid bearing a lot of similarity to blood.

Sara sighed. "What the hell...?"

Nick shrugged the shoulder she hadn't put her chin on. "Couldn't tell ya. Yet..."

He took a sample of it from the wrench with a swab, and drenched it in a drop or two of that all-revealing chemical concoction he was so grateful had been invented _before_ he'd gotten into the work...

And it did, indeed, turn the swab purple. "Blood."

Sara sat back, and removed her gloves from her hands with a snap. "What was this, a horror movie setting?"

Nick shook his head, more in disgust than in answer to her. "It was something... And God only knows what..."

Her toothy smile was visible in the light that rested on the floor. "You really believe that?"

"Sure," he answered simply. "I think I've expressed as much before... But either way, we've got a situation on our hands. We've–"

"Nick!" she whispered sharply.

"Yeah, I know... I still need to–"

"No, no, no... Nick."

He leaned back a little, and observed her for a clue about the suddenly conspiratorial look that had taken up on her face. And she was pointing right up at the window; that ought to be a good indicator... So he turned, and followed her gesture. It took a couple of seconds, but then it began to come into view.

There was something in the refraction of the yard. It was only visible with the blue light from Mitchell's squad car, but it was definitely there... Nick followed an unidentified instinct, and huddled down a bit closer to the floor. Sara did the same, and crawled right by him. He reached into his pocket, and felt around until his fingers closed on his cell phone.

Officer Mitchell answered in a single, professional ring. "Nick...?"

"Hey, Mitch, you might want to get around to the back in about a minute. There's somebody there."

It took a second before that seemed to register with the good cop on the other line. "What...?"

"There's somebody behind the house," Nick explained. "We can see them in the window from the attic. They're sitting in the bushes, and their head is just barely poking out of the top."

There was only a click on the other end. Nick sighed, and regained his feet suddenly.

"Whoa!" protested Sara. "Where are you going?"

But he was already halfway to the door. "Out to provide backup."

He heard a scrambling, and hurried footsteps that slowed as they came closer to him from behind. "Well, don't go without me. Haven't we been there before?"

He clenched his fist momentarily before drawing the pistol from his belt. He didn't much care for the reference at a time like that, but he didn't answer; just tried to listen to both her following him, and whatever else might be ahead.

They were out the back just as Mitchell was around the house corner. "Las Vegas PD!" he was shouting.

The rustling came from right beside him, where there was a bush he hadn't realized was so close. He threw an arm out across Sara's front, and pointed his gun straight at the rustling figure that was extracting itself from the greenery.

"Come out where we can see you, and keep your hands in the air as soon as you can lift them without falling!" commanded Mitchell.

Whoever it was, they cussed at the bush, and continued to struggle against its brambles for a second or two more. But they sounded male... and just as Nick was beginning to think they might have found Brandon, he was surprised yet again. Just not by anyone he knew...

But Sara did. As the man came to his feet, and lifted his hands above his head as instructed, Sara edged around Nick and spoke in breathy disbelief. "Richard...?"

"Please, don't shoot! I'm unarmed," answered the man.

Nick lowered his pistol, and eyed Sara in puzzlement. "'Richard'?"

She returned his question with a knowing look, and returned to regarding the suspect. "Yeah. One of the men from the jewelry store."

"Ah," Nick replied, as if he understood what was going on.

But she wasn't fooled. She grinned, and shook her head with playful condescension. And unlike the way he had handled she and Morgan's laughing at his crashing of the lift, he shrugged it off. It was time for some questions.

* * *

"I don't understand," Sara repeated for the fifth time. "You were at a crime scene tampering with evidence, but you expect us to believe you weren't doing anything wrong?"

"No, no," answered Richard. "No, I wasn't tampering with evidence. I just knew that Clara had never been allowed to leave the police station, so I went to see if she had left anything incriminating."

Morgan exchanged a glance with Sara that almost put the latter in stitches. "What's wrong with you people?" the former demanded.

"I assure you, absolutely nothing," said Richard. "We are just trying to make a living."

"No, no, no. I mean, upstairs," pressed Morgan, flicking her head back indicatively. "You run the weirdest little store in the entire city of Las Vegas. You don't call for police help when you receive a very clear message asking for it from an elderly female customer, and you don't define removing items from the scene of a crime... to cover up your co-worker's filthy sexual exploits with a _murder victim_... as tampering with evidence? What the heck is wrong with you?"

Richard looked down. And suddenly, Sara felt a little sorry for him. His eyes were brimming with tears, and his sweet demeanor was betrayed by the sudden honesty he seemed to operate in. And it felt cruel to her that he was faced with a situation in which such goodhearted intentions were getting him nowhere.

"Look..." she tried a little softer. A little wearier... "It's illegal to sneak onto a crime scene at all. And it's super illegal to take anything from it. Do you understand that?"

"I am just trying to look out for my family," sobbed the broken, older man. "There is no intent to cause harm."

At this, Morgan seemed to soften up some, too. "Your family...? Clara is your family?"

"She is my daughter. Through adoption."

Sara frowned. "She called you by name when we first spoke at the store."

"It is not what we would call public knowledge. She is... well, Ms. Sidle, surely you can see, she is white. I am not. I am an Arabic man. We adopted her, my wife and I, when we came to America ten years ago."

Under the table, Morgan touched Sara's knee. Sara glared down at it for a second before urging Mr. Jaffel on.

"And, well, Clara is such a sweet girl. But she is, as you say here in this country, 'loopy'."

"That's one way of putting it..." muttered Morgan.

"Yes. I know there are worse ways of describing it, but Clara needs protection. She doesn't understand what her behavior could do to her, if she is not watched out for."

In her mind, pieces of a jigsaw puzzle, which she imagined on a card table by a Christmas tree for extra visual effect, were coming together. Sara blinked prominently at the shaking hands of the suspect, where a wedding ring was shining somewhat in the little bit of light coming through the high-up windows. Outside of which, it was starting to get dark.

"So, when you were pressing Clara to hook up with the old lady's grandson..."

"I was trying to find her suitable mate to watch out for her! She needs help! She doesn't understand..."

Morgan held two reassuring hands out. "Okay, okay... We get what you mean. Believe me... And we're doing the best we can, but someone has died, here. And we have a responsibility to find out how it happened. And Clara has become involved. So if you want to get her out of the picture, we need you to cooperate. Can you do that?"

Sara leaned back. Morgan had it. The saddened, shorter man nodded, and brushed the tears away from his kindly eyes, with his questionably-guided hands.

"Please tell us: what were you removing from the crime scene?"

Richard began to tear up again. He looked down, and hugged himself with both arms. "Just the plant that Clara had taken to the house with her. It was a gift from her birth mother, before she died. She has kept it with her all of her life."

Sara's frown returned. "She went to sleep with a handsome, older stranger, and she took her mother's plant with her?"

"It was with her when she closed up that evening," Richard explained, and seemed to calm down some as he again cleared his eyes. "But she left it behind before she left, and when she saw the other young man who was there, she tells me she set it outside, and would go back for it later. She was scared..."

"Wait– 'The other young man'... You mean, Brandon? The old lady's grandson?" inquired Sara.

"I do not know. Just young man with bruises."

Sara knew she shouldn't. It was against policy, in full view of the suspect. But she turned and looked at the one way mirror that served as a large chunk of the wall. Where she knew Nick was standing in wait, watching the whole thing.

"Do you know where the plant was earlier?" came Morgan's voice from the other side of Sara. "We had collected some spores from the house, and they have gone missing."

"Do not know," answered Richard, thickly accented, and with a shrug. "Just that it was there on the table when I came to get it. And then, police arrived... Can I see Clara?"

Sara leaned her elbow on the table, and let her forehead rest on her hand. "She's in holding. If you want to see her, you will have to agree to remain in holding until we release you."

The kindly man grasped at this chance with all the eagerness of a child excited to begin school, before grasping all that it would entail. "Yes. Yes, let me call my wife, and tell her where I am. Then, I will see Clara. I will stay with her."

Sara nodded, and offered the faintest, fakest smile in any recent memory of her life.

Outside the interrogation room, as they watched one of the officers leading Richard to the phone, Nick was staring in deep concentration at the back of the man's pant leg. "Did you get a look at the grassy pattern on his hem?"

Morgan blinked. "His what?"

"Hem," repeated Nick.

But when she still looked confused, Nick made a discouraging wave with one hand, and looked away, back at their suspect.

"It means the bottom cuff of his pant leg," explained Sara.

Nick looked back at her from his observations. A smile was adorning his face. "That's right. It's an old word I used to hear from my grandparents..."

The implication of such a simple statement really stung. Sara took a deep breath, and smiled back. Having forgotten until then, quite guiltily, that his grandfather had just died...

Morgan's eyes moved between them. "Okay," said Morgan. "So, what about it? His hem, I mean... What did you see?"

"There's something on it," he said. "It's not just the grass from the yard, or the wood pieces from the bush. He's got a little something black, or dark green stained on his very white pants."

Sara crinkled her eyebrows, and looked where Nick had indicated.

And there it was. "Yeah..." And then back to him. "What do you think?"

"I think we need to know what it is," he replied. "Which means one of us will have to collect it."

There was, of course, no doubt about who that would be. Both she and he looked over at their third companion without any pause.

"Me?" questioned Morgan indignantly. "Why me?"

"Because he likes you," answered Nick, simply. "And you were so good with him during the interrogation."

"Yeah, and... because you just love these people. You know you do," reinforced Sara. "And because we still need to visit Dave in the morgue."

"Right. And there's no reason to call Greggo all the way over here," added Nick. "So just go for it!"

Morgan crossed her arms. "Is that it...?" she said, with what sounded like some kind of teasing in her tone.

Sara flicked her eyebrows. "Yes. What else would it be?"

But Morgan waved a dismissive hand as Nick had done. "Oh, I suppose nothing... Alright, alright. Let me go and get one of the PD kits, and I'll get started. But I want you to know, you both suck for this."

As she left, the sound of Nick's chuckling resonated with Sara's own giggling. And not long before Morgan was gone around the corner, they set off down the same hall, except going left where Morgan had gone right. There was brief silence as Nick's gaze seemed to go everywhere. From the literature hanging on the walls to the beautifully-illuminating city outside the windows, and then to her... He seemed quite willing to go for anything.

"So, what are we really going to do?" she asked him, at last.

"You mean, while the homies are off in every corner?" he laughed, chest vibrating from behind his folded arms.

Which he had not undone at all since they had started walking. And as she realized that, another detail of him stood out, suddenly.

"Hey... you're still covered in plaster."

But he was clearly not listening. His face had relaxed into some kind of a dopey smile. He wasn't looking away, and she refused to, either. Or, perhaps, she couldn't bear to tear away from the nostalgia she was feeling... With his lighter and happier demeanor, in that moment... and the last of the day's sunlight glowing off him... he looked almost as young as he had been when they'd met. It made her feel a little self-conscious, suddenly.

"Am I?" he finally said, after she had picked at the lower tips of her hair a few times.

She smiled, and placed both hands on his forearm. "That's evidence you're wearing, you know."

He laughed once. "I suppose it is. And I better get out of it before Russell gets here."

"You and your shirts..." mused Sara.

"I guess it _is_ a recurring circumstance in my life," he replied. "Shall I wait for Morgan to come and do that, too?"

She giggled again at his joke, and shook her head. "No, no... There was no reason to call Greg for some guy's pants, so there's no reason to call Morgan for your shirt. I seem to remember some prior experience with this, anyway. Since we're looking back a lot, lately..."

His face lit up more, with another old memory that she hoped was pleasant for him. "I think I got rid of that 'hideous' shirt almost immediately after that college frat case, too."

"Good," she shot back playfully. "It was just not working for you."

"I disagree. But what do you think of this one?"

"I'll take a closer look at it when it's mine."

"Now, wait a second, I need it back." He affixed her with a completely unconvincing look.

And she wasn't fooled. "No, you don't. And once I've got it, I'm keeping it for the rest of the case."

"Heh. I'll meet you in the locker room."

"Ooh, Stokes, you do that," she simpered in jest.

Or, well, as she watched him go... half in jest.

* * *

The air was electric in the locker room before she even got there. He was sitting on the edge of the bench with his cell phone out. Probably texting his family... He looked so very drawn out, and wearier than a marathon runner at the end of a race..

As he realized she was there, he hopped up, a little younger looking than before. And his expression changed, from wistfulness to hopefulness. In the form of a smile, that she was liking to see on him more. She leaned against the door frame, and regarded him thoughtfully. For a second, there was nothing funny, or even flirty, that she could think to say. And then it became another second. And another followed it...

So she settled on something serious, and honest, instead. "How's your family holding up?"

He scratched the back of his head. "Well... My mother's in the worst shape, it sounds like. They're wondering about me, over here..."

She lifted her cheeks into a smile of her own. A bigger one... "I bet they are. I bet they do a lot, actually."

He frowned, and cocked his head to the side. "Why's that?"

"Because if I had a family like yours, and a relative like you lived so far away, in such a dangerous line of work, I'd wonder all the time. Probably never stop, really..."

It took her a considerable amount of self-restraint to not let her own shock show. Had she really just said that? But as his grin grew from behind his beard, and he inclined his head forward, she figured he was not about to latch onto it. So she let it pass.

"Right, let's get this off me," he said.

And his hands went up over his head. Gripping his shirt at the back, between his shoulders. Eyes sort of down, but not entirely; she imagined he was looking at her knees.

"Hmm..." she hummed, lips pressed together both in pretend consideration, and in an attempt not to laugh.

But she couldn't help it. And she would later be grateful that he didn't mind. In fact, they were soon both laughing. And it reminded her: this was why she had tried so hard to loosen up over the years. Where had her grittiness actually gotten her in life? At the end of the day, she was still divorced. And she was still doing the job in the city she had sworn she wouldn't stick around in, after being called there by the man she was divorced from. And Nick was still fun. And still family, even if not literally. And still there... Still nervously laughing, because that was how they dealt with those kinds of things. The understanding of which was slowly causing her own to fade...

Yes. He was indeed still there... Standing, right where they were, on the proverbial edge with her. In the same boat that she was. Half-naked, and vulnerable in his current state, though he would never say it aloud, and she never would, either. But there.

There like no one else. Not her mother or father... or Grissom, or Catherine, or Warrick. Or even Greg, younger enough than her and Nick, both, to be removed from some understandings that they had acquired with just their few extra years. Understandings like why they laughed, in the first place...

And she appreciated it. She felt like she hadn't shown it quite like she should. But she appreciated it. And she turned her lips back up, as he seemed to register that her mind had gone on from their moment, and held his shirt out to her.

"Thank you," she said, feeling a little like it was a firecracker as it passed from his hand to hers. But the joke wouldn't be complete yet, so she clicked her tongue, and appraised his torso for a second or two. "Still fine, there, Nicky..."

"Oh, you know it," he shot back. "I was waiting for you to say it last night, actually." He jutted his lower lip out in a false attempt to look pitiful. "My feelings have been kinda hurt..."

She laughed, and stuffed his shirt into the bag she had brought. "God..."

"Well, hey: I thought you'd have my back."

"Don't I always?" She began to scribble on her clipboard, writing more with habit than with intention. "Even when you drive me crazy?"

He made a so-so gesture. "Can't argue with that. But, you know... it's personal."

"I can see that," she said, teeth shining in the little bit of sky light left. "Why else would you have mentioned it?"

He shrugged, and rubbed one hand on his neck. "I don't know. Maybe I'm just on edge..."

She looked up from her notes, and let her eyes go between each of his.

"I know you're there, though," he continued. "And I'm sorry, I haven't been much fun this shift."

She looked back down again, head angled slightly to the side. "You're distracted. I get it."

"But that isn't your problem. Except when I make it that. That's what I'm sorry for."

She nodded, but she didn't think she would like to look up again.

Until, that is, he said it to her outright. "Why do you do that?"

And then bursting curiosity made her look. "Do what? Why do I do what...?" she asked, a little hint of worry in her tone.

But his face was all intrigue. "Look away from me like that."

Her cheeks made themselves into a grin. "I do it with everybody, Nick. We all just have our ways of dealing with the little things that suck."

"Ah," he responded immediately. "Then my apologies on the double. I try my very hardest not to suck."

One hand came up to his heart, and the other raised like he was taking an oath. She shook her head, and let herself share in one more bout of laughter that came over them.

"Get a shirt," she said when they were done. "As much as I've enjoyed, I don't think Ecklie would buy it if we said you were bare-chested for professional reasons again."

"What... Me?" Nick joked. "Nah." But he was already looking around, searching...

"Right there," she answered, indicating with the pen she had used. "Hanging on the rack."

"Oh... And how did they get there...?"

"I hung them there. Greg was about to throw them all in the hamper. And I know how much you hate doing laundry, so I saved them."

She had partially been kidding. But as he finished buttoning up his new attire, he looked at her like she hadn't been at all.

"Thank you so much, Sara," he said.

The sound of his voice when he was contented made her relax. "Sure."


	18. Unfolding

"So, really: how are your family doing?"

Nick let his head roll lazily from the window he was looking out. "Hmm...?"

She shook her head and grinned at him. "Your family...? They were texting you before I came to get your shirt. How are they?"

He nodded once, and took a deep breath to dispel the heavy weight that seemed to stay lodged in his chest whenever he thought about home. "They're okay. You know, as can be expected... I think I'm going to have to take some time off after this, though. Go and see them..."

She nodded vigorously. "Oh, absolutely! That's a given. You should go."

"You in a hurry to get rid of me, Sidle?" He inclined his head slightly to the side.

"Of course not."

"Alrighty, then. Just making sure."

She blushed, and shook her head in insincere annoyance. Like he knew she would.

But then, the job was upon them, as they rounded the corner and came right into the materials lab. Where Greg seemed to be pouring over a long line of papers, all attached by perforation. Nick glanced over at Sara, who was tracing the paper line with her eyes, and growing moderately impatient-looking. He sighed, and tried to remind himself that long and arduous tasks were sometimes just all there was to it.

Provided that it was an arduous task he was performing... But the only way to know that would be to ask. "What's up, G?"

Greg glanced up, and smiled in answer before speaking it. "I did some more blood work." And then he dived right in. "The stain in the carpet? From the original scene...? It belongs to a Geraldine Samekey."

"Then, what's with the spreading mountain of papers?" demanded Sara, apparently unable to hold herself any longer.

As per her usual impatience, Nick thought to himself. He tried not to smile from beside her; he was sure it was beginning to make him look like an idiot. But he also had to close his eyes, and press his lips together for a moment. Hoping to suppress any inappropriately-timed laughter...

Greg did not sound perturbed by her attitude, however. "Well, that's for my second finding. The curling iron, stuffed down the victim's throat..."

Nick's eyes popped open, and his face rearranged itself into a grimace of disgust. He'd forgotten about that...

"It had multiple contributions on it. Three of them, actually. The first, exactly what it sounded like: Hector Halsen."

"'Hector Halsen'?" repeated Sara. "How did you find an I.D.? We've checked all the usual systems!"

A smugness took over Greg's features. "Did you try DNA comparison?"

A frustrating feeling came over Nick. And he guessed that Sara felt the same by the look she shot at him from behind her trimmed hair.

But all traces of emotional inspiration vanished quite suddenly from Greg's expression. In its place, there was a kind of grim anticipation. "I looked and looked, but I didn't see any DNA comparisons between Hector Halsen and Brandon. Whose last name I actually couldn't find..."

A very quieted snort of satisfaction sounded from Sara, right by Nick's shoulder. This time, he had to clench his fist for laughter control...

But then Greg's eyes landed directly on him. "I didn't find any alleles in common, Nick. He lied to you about being related to the victim."

It was both embarrassing and angering... being lied to by a suspect that he'd thought better of. But there it was. And since it had obviously done no good to blow up – either during this case, or the hundreds of others he'd worked on – he settled for a curt nod, and dug his fingernails into his palms. Hard enough that he would be surprised if he didn't find that he'd made himself bleed later on...

"I'm sorry, Nick. He really did seem like a nice kid," Sara offered, though her head was down, and her tone was less-than personal.

He inhaled deeply. "Yeah... Yeah. Well, how many times has _that_ screwed us? I'm still waiting for the big I.D. reveal."

Sara didn't seem hesitant to let it go. But Greg did; he made an odd movement with his head, before pressing on. "So, what I did find was that Hector's DNA matched an unconfirmed suspect's from a case in Philadelphia, something like fifteen years ago. It was heavily masked, so it took a while for the computer to undo the security measures. I made a phone call, and it turns out the case was never solved because the suspect was never caught. Until now, it appears...

"But what happened was: two officers accidentally uncovered a break-in-turned-permanent. This Hector guy apparently just barged in to a woman's house that summer, and never left. He posed as the father to her child after killing her real husband, and kept a tight leash on all of her activities, and drank himself completely stupid all the time. Before he left, he killed the kid... and the mother was in a mental house after that."

There was a permeating silence on the room. All the muscles in Nick's body had gone too weak to do anything other than keep him standing. Sara had leaned against his arm, and her forehead rocked from side to side as she digested this. Greg had looked down sullenly at the keyboard of the laptop he'd just been using.

But the spotlight was still on him, even through the grimness, so he continued with a sigh. "I've asked for any of the evidence left over from their case they can spare. Not necessarily for helping us with ours, just... because I need to be able to sleep at night. So, it's coming... but, in the meantime, we don't even know if Hector Halsen is his real name. It was the one he gave them on his driver's license when they first questioned him, but they never could prove anything until after they couldn't find him anymore. About then, the old and slow methods of crime scene processing caught up, and then they had their unsubstantiated answers."

Funny how some things never disappeared with time, or age. Like how obviously shaken Greg was. Even though there had probably been worse cases – it seemed like there always were – and he'd been doing the job for a while, these kinds of thing still bothered him. And if there was one thing Nick had learned to not take pride in sharing with Grissom, it was the latter's reaction to the human element.

Sara couldn't have missed it, either; she rounded the table between them and Greg, and placed one hand on his shoulder, and the other on his forearm. "Greg..."

Greg wasn't above stuffing it down, though; something nobody could really claim to be above in CSI work. He gave her hand a dismissive pet, and smiled halfway. "It's okay. Just, you know, take a look at what they send, and..." He shrugged. "There you go. In the meantime, I did find the other two DNA contributors in _our_ system. So, here..."

He reached out and pressed several keys on the laptop harder than it probably needed. The two windows came up, each with their different assigned candidates. The first one seemed hardly a shock to Nick, either.

"Mrs. Samekey," Sara read off. "How was she on it?"

"Looks like a hair survived," Nick answered. He pointed at the top right corner. "Stuck on the rubber."

"Probably her iron, I'm guessing," said Greg. "It's a common household item, and it was in her house, so..."

Good guess," Nick commented dryly. "Question is: did she touch it because she was stuffing it down his throat? Or just using it?"

"I think just using it," Greg kept on. "Because the third contributor was much more intimate."

He indicated the second results list on screen. And then Nick saw it. And his eyes narrowed.

"I knew it..." he growled.

It was Madame Challal.

* * *

"Alright..." He pulled the chair up with one hand, and sat right down in it... coming to rest with both hands on the table, and an unshakable glare aimed at the high-class woman, who was staring back. "That'll be enough of your attitude. We've got you on an incriminating piece of evidence, now. I want some answers, and I want them now, or there will be a full arrest."

Madame Challal did not seem too impressed. And it drove him up absolutely up the wall.

He flung the sheet out at her. "That's you. Just enough of your fingerprints on the edge of that handle to pop up in our system. And that, right down there, is your name. Your face. Your everything. All wrapped up in one neat, evident little package."

Her eyes, and her eyes alone, turned down to view the paper. Her arms remained clasped around herself, and her posture didn't change from its deceptively-proper form.

"And this is supposed to tell me what? That I killed your victim?" she spat, with a small, derisive laugh following. "I think not. I don't even know where you found this, or how I am supposed to be associated with it."

Having expected this, Nick waved a silencing hand across the table. Enjoying very much the red rush of fury that came across her face. "I think you know exactly where it came from. We found this down the throat of our dead man. And somehow, it's got your fingerprints on it. Fingerprints can hang on for a long time, but it just doesn't happen like this. No jury is going to believe that you sold this to someone, and that it somehow, miraculously ended up in our victim's place of residence. You were involved in this." He jabbed the paper between them. "You know something you aren't telling. Now spit it out."

She lifted her eyebrows, and a savage smile came out on her face. "Or...?"

"Or we'll find it," he replied, shortly. "We're already going to look through your house and back offices. That's a done deal. But if you don't want it to be everything else in your life, you'll start talkin'. Now."

Her blush this time was more one of a unassuming shock. "How dare you...?! You can't just root around in my life! That's a complete invasion of my privacy!"

"It's a legal, court-approved action in accordance with the policies and procedures of crime investigations. Don't give me any of this bullshit. I want to know what's up. Start explaining."

"Court-approved or not, it's still wrong, Mr. Stokes. How would _you_ feel?" She diverted her gaze, and seemed to consider the wall for a few moments. And when she turned back, she let her eyes roam over him for a moment or two more. "You do not seem like an unintelligent man. Why don't you give me your theory? Tell me how I am magically connected to a murder."

"I think you were there," he shot back with no hesitation. "I think you were there, and for reasons you're gonna tell me, you participated in the murder. That, or some kind of an elaborate torture scenario... Either way, you know more than you're letting on. What's your beef?"

She rolled her eyes. "Typical middle-aged male tripe... My 'beef'... Perhaps not so intelligent, after all..."

It was Nick's turn to roll his eyes. "Uh huh. Spit it out," he repeated.

Suddenly, she seemed to decide to lose it. She exhaled sharply, and indignantly. "Jesus...! I won't! You'll just have to see what you can find! I told you: I'm not going to make this easy on you!"

And her whole demeanor changed. Nick squinted, and tried to use different eyes. She was very fidgety, and uncomfortable. She wasn't sitting very close to the table... as if she were afraid to touch it. Her legs were crossed tightly, and her knuckles were white with the effort of squeezing her own thin biceps. Even the way she was dressed seemed to denote secrecy and withdrawal.

He sighed. And decided to try something else. "Madame Challal... It wouldn't be necessary to go digging if you would just tell the truth. The truth will corroborate with the evidence, and if there's really nothing to hide, then you won't have anything to fear. Just give me something, anything that's honest to work with. I can do a lot for you with just a little bit."

"But you won't," she replied immediately, clearly unswayed. "I am not your interest. Your case is. Go ahead. Look through my life." A tear left her eye, and her voice, though shrill, shook a little bit. "You just see what you can find of me. I guarantee, you will never find it all."

* * *

At the sound of the approaching footsteps, Sara lifted her head. Half-hoping to see Nick back with an energizing discovery. But it was Morgan who came rolling through the door.

"I think I've got some movement on the missing evidence. We're going to want to check the Jaffel's storage unit. Richard and Clara both said to look for 'other plant spuds' there."

Sara laughed. "Ah... I see. 'Other' plants, huh?" And she smiled down at the tools she was processing.

"Yeah. According to them, this plant was a messy mix of two seeds Clara's mom used to mess with." Morgan flopped the swab she had used for Mr. Jaffel's pant leg down on the table, and flung herself onto the stool nearest. "She died because she drove her car into a lake."

Sara's head shot back up. "What?"

"Yeah," said Morgan. "Clara's mom killed herself by driving into a lake."

Behind them, Greg turned from the deer trophy. "Did they say why?" he asked through a frown of puzzle.

"Nope," answered Morgan. "Just that she was depressed, they thought, and so she killed herself by driving into a lake."

Sara bobbed her head forward, and let it hang on her chest for a moment. "I am so tired of human weirdness..."

"Likewise," said Morgan. "But what have we got on this end?"

"Nothing too shocking with the tools," Sara sighed. "The blood is single-owned: Brandon. It appears there was some self-infliction going on, too. The skin molecules are his, as well." She ran her hands over her face and back through her hair wearily, and then looked over her shoulder. "Greg?"

"This is more interesting," he said. "This trophy has a plaque on it. But hidden beneath the synthetic fur."

Both Sara and Morgan came to join him. "What?" asked the latter.

"It's like someone tried to hide it. I peeled off the fur, and found this message hidden under it."

Sara leaned a little closer, till her chin came to rest on Greg's arm. The light he was shining on it reflected well in the lab's larger lights, and she could see, with a moment or two of focus, exactly what it was.

"'Brandon x Will forever'," read Morgan. "...'Will'...? Who the hell's 'Will'...?"

"Don't know that yet. But under the plaque, there's a small hole. And inside, I found this."

When Sara took a look at the deer head again, she realized it was missing almost a whole side. She blinked, and scrunched her face together in surprise.

But then, Greg's latest came to rest on the small tray beside her. "A camera," he stated. "A small, disposable one."

And it was. A small, yellow, disposable camera with smudged printing and dried dirt all over its exterior. Sara reached for a set of gloves, and applied them quickly before picking the small, moment-capturing device gingerly up. Morgan and Greg's faces were suddenly in her peripheral, staring as intently at it as if it had been their very first solo find back in the academy.

"We'll be lucky if we can get anything off this. It looks old. Look at the date on it," she said.

It was Morgan who read it out loud. "'1999'."

"That's right," confirmed Sara. "So this is before digital development. We'd better get started on this one now, before anymore degradation sets in. Who wants it?"

"What? Why don't you take it?" insisted Morgan.

"Because I need to report all this to Nick. And if you think you know where the missing evidence is, he and I should probably go find it."

Morgan and Greg exchanged looks, probably thinking themselves just outside her line of vision.

She instantly decided to disillusion them of that idea. "What?"

"Why don't I go with him for that? I'm the one who got the tip off..."

"He asked me to help him with this," Sara stated bluntly, as if that ended any doubts.

"I think he asked all of us to help him," Greg tried. "Given that he's brought us all in on the case... It's kind of an all-around, unspoken help fest."

There was a flash of annoyance welling up. She'd kind of thought Greg would get it. And she came so close to saying what she really thought of him for that.

But she didn't. "I suppose we'll have to ask when he gets back, then," she settled on, through measured breaths. "In the meantime, fine: I'll take the camera."

In the window's reflection, she could see Greg and Morgan looking at each other as she left for the next room. But soon, her mind left them as far behind her as her feet. The slow, but scientifically-exact process of developing old photographs was as mesmerizing as it was boring. The way the pictures began to form into coherent images was somewhat fascinating to her. But it was a long process... and she couldn't quite make out the shadowy nature of the scenes she was revealing until after she had left the dark inside of the photo room.

When she did, Nick caught up with her. "I hear you're going back to school."

She blinked a little against the brighter lighting outside the development room. "What?"

"A 1990 disposable camera..." he said, indicating its depleted remains. "That's a throwback..."

"Oh. Yeah..." She giggled. "Yeah, Greg found it in the deer head."

"So I hear, too." He smiled at her handiwork for a moment. "What did you..."

As his voice faded, she looked over at him in confusion. "What did I find, you mean?"

"Oh, that's just gross," was all he answered with, flicking a hand out to the photos.

"What is?" And she followed his finger back to the pictures.

Where what was in them seemed to realize itself in her brain. She blinked, and tried to swallow her entire throat... and brushed some of her hair out of her eyes, as if to take a closer look. See if she was really seeing it...

It was disgusting. It started with a young, pale, masked male in his underwear, posing for the photographer in a few suggestive poses. From there, it progressed into a dual act, with their alcoholic victim – booze bottle in one hand – engaging in a variety of filthy behaviors with whoever the other person was.

"Oh, my God..." Sara groaned, and turned to the leave the room as the feeling of vomit started to build in her stomach.

She found a vending machine a couple of halls down, and deposited $1.25 worth of quarters in it hastily for a bottle of cool water. As the sound of the bottle clanging its way down hit her ears, where they were pressed against the transparent plastic covering the items on display, she closed her eyes and willed several happier pictures into her head. And as soon as she had one solid enough, she tore the water out of the dispensary, and tore off its lid to greedily drink down some of its refreshing liquid.

Nick caught up after she had drained half the bottle. "Hey, hey, hey," he said. "Don't choke yourself, now."

She gave him a thumbs up before pulling the bottle from her lips and twisting its cap on tightly. "I'm sorry..." she gasped. "I didn't mean to rush off without securing the evidence. I just really needed to get away for a second..."

He scratched his chin through his semi-thick beard. "I understand. I just can't afford to lose the help."

His smile belayed his sarcasm. She rubbed her eyes on the side of her long robe's sleeves. And the hum of the machine reminded her of how angry she had been with him the last time she had heard the sound. To look at him then, she did not know how she would have handled this without him.

"Nick..." she tried.

"Yes?"

And there were so many things she wanted to say. So many memories from brighter days and better times. From easier cases, and less confusing past feelings. But what she settled for was a grin.

And a quip. "Nice shirt."

She could see that he tried not laugh. Just like how he had tried with Greg, he tried with her. So serious all the time, for some reason she just could not fathom anymore.

But he let it go when their arms came around each other. And she began to wonder how on Earth she was going to tell him that she didn't want to end up at home by herself, for a second night in a row.


	19. Footprint

After a few phone calls, they were all together. There was something about the way their eyes all turned to him that made him nervous. But he'd learned to suppress that long ago... Well before he'd been asked by Catherine to cover his first shift. It seemed like such a long time ago, though it hadn't been, of course, until after Grissom was gone... So no more than five years ago. And that wasn't so long.

Greg cleared his throat. "Uhm..."

Nick looked up. They were all still watching, and still waiting for him to get them started. So... "Right," he began, rather generically. "Thanks for coming in, Pip. And buddy..."

Their trainee from earlier was proving to be a real sport for the job. He had only been home for a couple of hours, and he'd agreed rather readily to come back. Just the makings of a true CSI, when a case was hot.

"And thank you, Greg, Morgan, for our latest finds. Did you wanna be the ones to fill us all in?"

Morgan made a dismissive hand gesture, and seized the stack of papers from Greg's hand. "I got this," she said, in what sounded like it was at least meant to be a reassuring tone.

Sara snorted. Though nobody else seemed to have heard it... Nick ducked his head a little, and hoped nobody would look at him until his thickly-masked grin went away on its own. Because there was just no controlling it by will, alone.

"So, I took the DNA we got from the original crime scene. The second male contributor to the alcohol bottle? It was Brandon."

She said it, and then looked at Nick like she expected him to be bothered. But that had worn off him, for the most part, and he indicated such with a simple nod, and a motion to continue.

But it was Greg who spoke next. "We've also got him in the vomit, from the upstairs hallway. He was... all over that house. And recently after the victim's death, too..."

"And he may have been involved in the break-in at the jewelry vault," the trainee chimed in. "Those tools hid some fingerprints beneath the blood, and they matched Brandon, as well as the blood, itself."

Morgan blinked. "Where did you get Brandon's fingerprints from? I don't remember any of us gathering them..."

The student looked a little worried for a moment... but spoke up with a confidence that Nick was sure he used to show his positions in a better light, at times. "I just got 'em off the table in the interrogation room. I saw where he put his hands on the security camera, and... I... went in, and gathered them. Was I not supposed to?"

Nick was impressed. "No...! That's... very resourceful of you! Very creative...! Exactly the kind of thing we need on this team... Good work on that!"

But Sara made a funny face. And she looked at Nick before she spoke to the triumphant student. "I already covered the blood, I thought."

"Oh..." He ducked his head a little, and not to hide any poorly-timed laughter like Nick had.

Nick... who shot Sara a panicked expression full of unspoken "fix it, damn it".

She shook her head quickly, and spoke up a little more quickly still. "Oh...! But good job on following leads! And being thorough... That's a good trait to develop. Keep it up."

Her smile was not entirely genuine. But it seemed to be enough for the young man on the learn. And Nick was satisfied, if their student was.

Greg and Morgan had not missed the oddness of this. And neither had Brass, who had not spoken yet, but was observing the whole meeting from the upper right corner of the room. The three of them moved their eyes between Sara and Nick like they were waiting for an out loud explanation for the sudden outburst. Irritated by their lack of understanding for people in new positions, Nick urged Greg and Morgan on with a harsh wave of his hand.

"Oh...! Right. The fingerprints on the deer trophy were a little less clear, though," Greg pressed on. "We ran it a couple of times to make sure we were seeing it right. But what they came up with was someone we've met before, Nick and Sara. From a few years ago... Guillermo Rice."

There it was. The one thing Nick had been waiting for. The piece of evidence that threw his stomach for the loop. Always telling him they were over the hill. Apparently, Sara felt something, too. She looked over at him, and then back at Greg.

"Wait a minute... Guillermo Rice. Will Rice...? As in, the son of Beatriz Salazar?"

"That's right," Greg reaffirmed. "I don't know how, but his fingerprints are in our case. And they're all over this deer trophy."

Brass had suddenly taken more interest, as well. He stepped over to them, and leaned around Greg's arm to look at the printed results.

"By God..." he muttered, and then looked back at Nick. "He's right, Nicky. Will Rice touched this trophy."

But Nick was thinking back a little to his interrogation with Madame Challal. And suddenly felt like an idiot... He had told her, after all, that fingerprints just didn't hang around for a long time, as a general rule. But there was no denying it, in this case; he had seen Will Rice's dead body almost five years ago, himself. He knew the guy was dead.

"'Brandon x Will forever'..." Sara repeated from the earlier plaque finding, in a whisper. "Brandon was involved with a man. Or, teenager. Or whatever... A male."

Nick scratched the back of his head, and let his hand slide down to his neck. "Yeah," he sighed. "And you'll remember, he didn't exactly speak too kindly of his 'uncle's' sexual exploits with males..."

"Then, what?" she posed in question. "It was all a cover up?"

"That's what it's starting to look like," Nick replied. And then to the others, "Anything else? Besides my tip Sara promised me?"

For a moment, there were looks of confusion around the table. But Nick's eyes didn't leave Morgan.

"She said you have a tip for me," he clarified, another off-timed urge to laugh rising to the forefront.

A light seemed to come on in Morgan's proverbial upstairs. She smiled, and nodded vigorously. "Yeah, I... I thought she was going to tell you."

In the corner of his eye, he saw Sara's gaze drop, first... and then divert to the hallway behind the glass walls. He made a mental note to ask her about that at the very first chance...

"Uhm, Richard and Clara offered some help," elaborated Morgan. "They said to check their family's storage unit for the missing evidence. Clara's mother was a plant person, and they kept one of them there. Maybe it's the missing evidence we're looking for."

"'Missing evidence'?"

 _That_ was not a voice Nick wanted to hear. Especially not in _that_ tone...

But there it was, striding into the room with purpose in the body of its owner. "What missing evidence?"

Nick sighed. "Russell... There you are..."

"Yeah, yeah, here I am." The abrupt, clipped way he said it sounded almost rude. "But you didn't answer my question. What missing evidence?"

An instinct to look at Sara resurfaced. He didn't follow it... but he had to pinch his thumb between his pointer and middle fingers, and take a deep breath to avoid doing so.

"Some evidence was stolen," he answered, hoping to sound brave, and unconcerned. "We've been tracking it down, and it sounds like Morgan has just pinpointed it."

Russell folded his arms, and inclined his head to one side. "Did she...? Any reason _she_ had to?"

Nick looked away with his eyes, but did not move his head. "It was just a lucky break for her. I would have found it, eventually. I've followed all the protocols."

"I'm sure you have," Russel answered. "I'm not accusing you. I'm just wondering how this could have happened on your watch."

"I was talking to a suspect," Nick shot back. "Someone stole it from the house while I was talking to a suspect."

"That's right," Brass added from behind Greg. "I was there when it happened."

Russell seemed to decide that two was too many to press the issue with. He held up a hand in a gesture of surrender, and waved it a couple of times.

"Alright," he said, in a considerably lighter manner. "Alright, I believe you. It happens. Like I said, I'm not laying any accusations. But we need to find that evidence, and quickly. I've been briefed on a few things with Ecklie. We can talk about them in a bit, but trust me when I say, we can _not_ afford to look bad to the I.A. right now."

A sudden feeling of relief came over Nick. Like a load had just slid right off his shoulders, and spread out on the ground around him. The whole thing was a mess... and now it was time for someone else to clean it up. Someone who was getting paid, much more than he was, to do it consistently.

"Got it," he said directly to Russell. "What do we do, then?"

Russell shrugged. "You tell me. It's your shift, still."

By the way her eyes widened, and her mouth came half open, Sara seemed just as surprised as he was. "What?" she asked, breathlessly.

"I didn't come to take over the case, Nick," Russell said to him. "I'm just here to help."

And in that moment, another bad choice in leadership sprung to the front: frustration got the better of him. "Well, then, why the boss-ish rant? I mean, I knew it was coming, but if you're not here to take shift off my hands yet, then what's the deal?"

An infuriating gift of Russell's came into play at once. Rather than respond to a direct remark in a direct way, he deflected it like a professional hockey goalie. "Alright, now, calm down. I swear, it's only for your concern. I'm sure you've done a great job as always, covering shift. And keep it up! We're almost there..."

It didn't help Nick's weariness that Russell sounded almost as eager for it to be over as he was.

"I'll tell you what: the office is yours until this is all over," added Russell.

Nick closed his eyes. And the pictures in his mind of home and family in Texas were overwhelming for a moment. He clenched his teeth together, and replaced it as fast as he could with something more immediately pleasing: images of his bed sheets turned up. Just waiting to welcome his tired body into their restful folds...

He yawned before he gave an answer. But an answer he did give: "Fine by me, then. I think we should divide and conquer. We're all picking teams. I mean, Jim has warrants for us, yeah?"

"Yeees..." Brass answered apprehensively. "Or, _a_ warrant... I'm getting you into Madame Challal's. Home, not business... And I've got progress on Brandon: he was seen outside of town trying to hitch with an off-duty taxi driver. An old co-worker of his turned it in. I'm going to ask _him_ some questions in an hour or so, here, and see if we can get into Brandon's place, as well."

Nick flashed a gruff, and insincere thumbs up. "Excellent. Everybody pick a partner, then. We're splitting up," he reiterated.

But just as Greg opened his mouth, Russell interjected again. "Uh... Excuse me... But who are these two?"

Nick looked at the two young men standing by the door, wide eyed and seeming very confused, and almost a little frightened, in their young maintenance man's case.

"That's Pip. And that's our newest trainee. He's pretty good. But Pip's in maintenance, so he's going to have to do outside duty."

"Oh...! Well, sounds great! You've got a good crew, here, Nick." And he turned to their student. "So how about you come with me?"

The student in question pointed at his own chest, as if to say: "Me...?"

"Yeah, you," said Russell. "Come on over here, we're going to have a good time. This career doesn't have to be as miserable as some people make it seem like. Lemme show you the fun side of dead people's life circumstances..."

Based solely on the trainee's looks to him, Nick was sorely temped to spring him from a partnership with Russell. But seeing the slight shake of the head given to him by Sara, he decided not to push his luck with their real supervisor, and instead gave a playful salute.

"And 'fun', he will make it. Who's next?"

"Sara!"

That was Greg. His bellowing voice had not waited for a second to get it out.

Nick's eyes narrowed, though his smile did not. "Okay... Sara, sound good to you?"

She brushed her palm over her eye, and nodded through a swelling yawn. "I'm sorry," she apologized afterwards. "I meant, yes, I'll go with him."

Though she did not seem as enthused at first – and Nick certainly was not – he gave it his seal of approval with a gesture he couldn't quite explain. Hoping that it wouldn't look too false. As Morgan claimed Pip, and that left him to himself, the dimness of the ongoing evening waned from setting sun to full blown night. He handed out their assigned duties on a basic checklist, and watched them all go without him in a starkly divided sense of relief, and irritation. It mirrored the inner turmoil he couldn't quite define... Something that was emphasized so very unpleasantly by his getting caught behind Greg and Sara in the hallway a few minutes later, on their way out. Where they were just steps ahead of him, laughing at something Greg had said as they headed for the parking lot with their gear.

* * *

Going out to a remote location on his own, in the beginning of night, was probably one of the least-wise things that he had done in recent times. But before dispersing the assignments, he had chosen this one because he figured it would look responsible to Russell. And it would give him a few minutes to respond to a few of his mother's text messages, which were building in number in his inbox quite furiously. As the GMC he was riding with wound its way out towards the storage area, Nick practiced the oh-so unsafe art of texting with one hand and driving with the other. But he didn't are as much as he probably should have.

It was a well lit road, for one so far out. Or rather, a well marked one... There really was nothing of note on it, save for the glowing lights of the storage grounds ahead. Signs told him he was going the right way, once he had decided to stop flirting with danger, and disciplinary action at work by putting his cell phone away.

The vast expanse of deserted sand lands was kind of a welcome change in place of the stuffy-feeling lab. He was trying not to think bitter thoughts, but as his head came to rest in his hand, he began to feel that there had come to be way too many people on the case. Dismissing Hodges and the other lab help for the night had been a pleasure for more reasons than just to get rid of Hodges for a bit... Though, if he were honest with more than himself, he would have had to admit that it was Greg he wanted to send home. Or Russell... Either one would have taken his mood, and presence of mind up a little bit. His failures were becoming increasingly hard to ignore, as it was... but nothing drove home a feeling of failure like being told you had failed.

"This plant had better be here," he whispered to himself, dangerously, and turned into the parking lot of the storage grounds. _If it's not, I swear... I'll quit._

There was a guard on duty at the center of the grounds. Positioned within a rather solid-looking shack, and standing out on the porch with a lit cigarette in hand. As Nick withdrew his science kit from the back trunk of the GMC, he saw that the guard was putting his cigarette out. Very enthusiastically, actually... stomping it into the ground with much more force than necessary. And, perhaps because he was having a "Paul Blart" moment... approaching Nick with a hand on his holstered pistol.

Though tempted to roll his eyes, Nick lifted a hand in a "whoa, whoa" motion, and set his kit down in an effort to appear as non-threatening as possible. "It's alright!" he called out. "I'm with the Las Vegas Police! I'm here on an investigation!"

The guard appeared to relax a little. "Can I see some I.D.?"

Oh, yeah. The guy was definitely a _Paul Blart_... But given that he was within his rights to be as such, Nick produced a badge from his front vest pocket, and flicked his eyebrows up a little, to mimic the expression on the I.D. requested.

"Alright...!" the guard shouted back. "Okay...!"

Returning his gun to his holster, he came out towards Nick with a hand extended to shake.

 _You have got to be kidding me_ , Nick thought. But what he said was, "I'm Nick. I'm looking into the Jaffel's storage unit tonight. I've got written permission, here. Richard Jaffel said you compare signatures out here. Is that correct?"

"Well, _we_ don't," the guard said, corny smile all over his face. "My computer does, though."

Nick forced the edges of his lips to turn up a bit. Certain that if he could see his expression at that moment, it would be unbearably unattractive to behold... "I know what you mean, man," he managed get out. "I do that kind of thing in my work, too. All the time..."

"Oh, yeah. It's awesome, isn't it?"

He was not entirely able to keep a formal smile on for _that_. "Sure. Uh... well, could you do that, possibly? I'm kinda in a hurry."

"Oh! Yeah, yeah, yeah. Sure... sure..."

He took the paper from Nick and disappeared into the shack for a moment or two. And when he returned with a key, Nick breathed a sigh of relief. Something easy... Until the rustling wind carried the smell of heavily-applied cologne to his nostrils. It made him sputter a little. There was _way_ too much scent on that guy...

The Jaffel's storage unit was waiting in the back. But right outside the door was the first thing Nick spotted. And it looked familiar from the get-go...

"Hey... Do those cameras of yours record footage, or just display it for you in the guard shack?"

"Display. Why...?"

Nick bent over, and set about with the molding process. Again... "Because someone else has been out here... And judging by the size of those boots, it wasn't Richard Jaffel." And then, struck by another notion, he looked over at the feet of the guard. "Or, you," he added, more calmed than anything by the distinctly different boot prints left by the only other person around them.

"Probably some overgrown kid," the guard tried to be witty. "Thought it would be cute to break in to some poor people's private storage... And if it wasn't me on duty, then Frank was. And Frank doesn't mess around."

Nick began to tune him out. As the door to the storage facility came open, there was only one thing on his mind. He lifted his hand from his kit with a flashlight in it.

And what he was looking for showed itself right away. "Yes!" he all but shouted, and hurried over to pick it up.

But then, something caught his ear from the meandering diatribe of the guard behind him. "...could be Jason, too. The little bastard..."

A flash of memory returned to Nick's mind, like a blast of soda to the face after opening a shaken bottle. "Jason" was a familiar name... One he was sure he had heard used recently before.

"Wait a minute, wait a minute..." he cut across the guard. "Jason...?"

"Yeah. Our new janitor. Quite the worker, but who knows about the guy, you know? Seems too eager, if you ask me. I figure he's just another one of those looking to score some easy loot."

Reflecting how little sense the feeling of security to the place added to that argument, Nick waved a tired hand for quiet, and pursued his real interest. "Okay... But Jason. That sounds like a suspect in my case. Can you tell me where he is? Where I could find him, I mean...?"

"Well... what else could you mean by–"

But Nick had finally lost it. "–could you tell me where he is?!" he bellowed.

"Yeah," replied the guard, as if a strange man hadn't just lost his temper with him. "Yeah, I can. I got his address. I know where he's at. Just, uh... I'll go get it while you... clean up, or something. Whatever it is you guys do."

With a sigh, Nick inclined his head once. "Thank you."

And as the guard again retreated to his shack, his departing presence was the cause of another change in the way Nick saw his line of work.


	20. Question

To say that Madame Challal's place belied her classy act would be a huge understatement. Based on Nick's description, an apartment at the top of a rickety wooden staircase was far from what Sara had pictured. But it was what she was walking up to... Greg trailing her, and fighting with his flashlight. As they came to the door with Officer Mitchell, a horrible smell reached her nose. It wasn't decomp, but it wasn't pleasant. A smile came involuntarily, as she again remembered the unbearable scent of her first seriously decomposing body case in Las Vegas...

"What's so funny?" inquired Greg.

His flashlight finally popped on, and he made the ever-so unappreciated choice to shine it right at her. She squinted against the light.

"I was just thinking about the smell..."

"You mean the smell I'm about to have to kick the door in on?" snarled a rather irritable Mitchell.

Greg shrugged, as if it were just nature of the business, and that it was okay to express such to their very best assisting policeman.

Sara, however, offered to go in, herself. "How about we tag team it?" She gagged a little, but forced a smile out. "I can do it."

Mitchell smiled, and waved a dismissive hand. "Nah, you stay right here. Just a second..."

He knocked on the door, and shouted the trademark "Las Vegas Police" before bashing it clean through. As if to reinforce the frailty of the place, the door collapsed. Sara watched in total disbelief, the way it crashed down on the thin carpeting of the living room with a nerve-harping clang. Greg didn't seem prepared for it, either; he literally pressed his lower jaw back up with one finger before gesturing"ladies first".

She wasn't sure she appreciated the sentiment like she should have, given the aroma. But she took it the way it was meant, and stepped ahead of her loyal friend into the dark room.

Whatever the stench was, it was definitely getting closer... The further she went in, the fewer places she could turn her head for clearer air.

Greg came up to her shoulder and began to direct his light all over the room. "There has got to be an obvious source for that. It's too strong to come from anything small."

"Not necessarily..." Sara answered.

"I suppose not." He coughed. "But I'd like to think there's _some_ sense left in the world..."

"Me, too," she muttered. "But then I woke up underneath a car... An upside down car, in the desert..."

Try as she might not to go there, it had been in her head since the end of the meeting back at the lab. Or rather, since she'd woken up in Nick's arms that morning, if she was honest with herself. But Greg didn't answer it. Not outright, anyway.

"I hear ya," was all he said. "So, catch me up on the whole case with Nick, and the shooting. Did it turn out well with I.A.?"

She turned over a couch cushion, and glared hard at the white fabric beneath it. "As far as I know. On Nick's end, anyway. They had some disturbing things to say beyond that, though."

"Like what?"

Greg had migrated to the small dining room, where Mitchell was circling back around till he was by them again.

"A lot of shootings," she replied.

There were flies on the ground by the empty plant pot. Their buzzing got louder the closer she came.

"'A lot of shootings'?" repeated Greg, disbelievingly. "Not to sound like a dick, but so? That's a huge part of this job."

"Yeah, but you didn't hear what I heard," Officer Mitchell interjected, in the act of holstering his pistol. "Sheriff Ecklie was on the phone with somebody while Captain Brass' was chasing down the warrants, and we heard the number's up to 100,000. In two weeks... Actually... _this_ was case number 100,000."

Sara tried to block Greg's melodramatic reaction out. Though she had been just as shocked when Nick had told it to her, she didn't feel like she had the space in her mind needed to gauge just how justified the long, drawn out gasp from her crime scene partner was. Not with more and more flies coming up on her...

One thing Greg said did come through, though. And she would think about it later, when she had some time. "It's like a massive uprising on law enforcement, or something. Somebody's aiming high with this one..."

"I don't know," answered Mitchell. "All I know is, I'm not about to hang it all up."

"Neither am I," Greg insisted. "I just can't believe there's been that many of them, that quickly."

Sara rounded the corner into the other room. There were the flies, all gathered in the corner she was about to step in. Something was sitting in a pile, there. And the disgusting scent suddenly registered with her.

"Oh, no... Hell, no..." she mumbled. "Uhm... Greg...? I'm leaving this one with you."

The sound of his footsteps – muffled, though slightly, on the thin carpeting – reached her ears. "Leaving what?"

And then he saw it. Now, _that_ was a gasp well-earned. "Oh, my God... Why?!"

There was a pile of feces on the carpet. Literal, human feces, lying in wait in the corner of the small extra room, right before the bedrooms and bathroom.

"Why do I have to collect?!" he began to protest. "You found it! I was talking to Mitchell, I was slacking! You should get credit...!"

A smile, both savage and playful, broke out on her face. "No. I think you've earned this one. Call it my personal punishment. And we won't mention to Russell. Er... Nick."

Greg's eyes made a funny motion, and his lip twitched a little. "You wouldn't make Nick do it if he was here."

"True. He's my boss. But go ahead and take it, anyway."

"He's just your boss for the night," answered Greg, resolution to unpleasantness ringing in his voice.

"Whatever. I'm going to check the kitchen."

"Uh... you might want to check the bathroom," Mitchell suggested. "I think there's more of it in there."

Sara threw a hand out at Greg. "Don't touch that! If the mess is worse in the bathroom, I'm making you do that."

He didn't even frown. He whipped his hands above his head, and a full grin was in place when he spoke back to her. "You never miss anything, huh?"

"You bet," she shouted back.

But the mess in the bathroom was of a different kind. Thousands of little pieces, all scattered on the floor, of different building materials. Though there was an un-flushed pile in the toilet, it was still enough to satisfy her vindictive jabs toward Greg. She sighed in relief, and set her kit down. This was going to be okay.

But as she squatted down to begin opening her kit, she caught it. Right in the middle of the construction materials, semi-hidden beneath the plaster, was the picture she guessed was left there on purpose. And the knife, with thick fibers on it, was poking out from beneath some small steel bars... She applied gloves, and began to take the precautionary photographs...

But as she reached for the evidence, there was a loud crunch. She felt like she had sunk a little. A look of surprised confusion came to her face.

"Sara?" called out Greg.

"Ye–"

CRACK. There it went.

An elderly couple in the apartment below were suddenly greeted with a woman, coming right through their ceiling, and landing directly on their dinner table. Along with a mess of construction materials... There was a scream, probably from the old woman, and Sara felt herself rolling off the table and onto a couple of chairs. Adrenaline-fueled reactions caused her to grip the chair her upper body had hit, but her lower half swung with force right off the other one.

"OUCH!" she cried out.

"Holy shit!" came a voice from above. Greg's...

Sara's breathing was the only sound she registered when the noise and the dust had settled. She looked around, slightly panicky, and then up. Just in time to see something rolling towards her, on the fringe of the hole. That something being the sink...

She dropped to the floor, and pressed away from it with her hand. And just as she felt the same rough carpet from the apartment above greet her back on the apartment below, the sink from the bathroom overhead gave in. It crashed onto the kitchen floor, and spread out all over, in pieces. She sat up and sighed. Her eyes were for the couple in the kitchen, first. Seeming to be unharmed, she then looked to Greg.

But it was Mitchell whom she heard first. "Piece of shit apartments..."

* * *

"But that's not what it was."

On the back edge of the ambulance, behind the apartment building, where Sara was now being examined for trauma, Brass was filling her in on the latest discoveries.

"Somebody weakened that apartment on purpose."

She looked up from where she was sitting, her eyes narrowed against the pain it took for her arm to be moved around. "What...?" she asked disbelievingly. "How the hell did they do that?"

"By buzz saw." It was Greg who answered, waving plastic bags in each hand; looking closely, Sara could see that one of them was marked "biological evidence". "I rooted through the pieces on the floor, and found little saw marks on the ceiling. Hidden by the thinly-applied re-plaster..."

The faint sounds of the residents protesting the situation seemed to fade in to where Sara was. She leaned forward on the arm that didn't hurt, and let her head rest on the palm of her hand. A lone sniffle, which may have sounded like the start to crying, escaped her. And then Greg was there, one arm draped over her shoulder. It felt nothing like a distant sensation... one that she remembered, but did not recognize, and sometimes wished that she had given everything else up for... But it was enough of a comfort to make her lean into him.

"Why do these things keep happening to me?" she asked the question that she couldn't quite chase off. "No offense, but why couldn't you have fallen through the floor?"

They both laughed. She, and Greg... Like old times. Far, far behind them, it seemed. And they were joined, if briefly, by Brass.

But after a few moments, he straightened up. "Okay... Stay here, Sara. I'm gonna go interview the old people."

"Oh, no," she said. "I'm going in on this one. _This_ is something I've just _got_ to hear..." And she made a noise of effort with the heaving of herself off the ambulance.

The paramedic did not complain about her moving, but Greg did. "Sara, come on... You've just crashed through a ceiling and into somebody's kitchen table. Why don't you just take a seat?"

"I need another laugh," was all she answered with.

Brass looked to the paramedic, as if to get his permission. But, perhaps at the tone behind Sara's abrupt answer, the aforementioned paramedic lifted both hands in a surrendering gesture. "I ain't about to question the lady's work ethic," he said. "She's not hurt severely. If she wants to go back to work, let her."

For a moment, there seemed to be no better friend in the world. Sara smiled warmly at the man, and then stepped to Brass' side for the next step in their investigation. Comfortable, and confident... And ready for the adventure to follow.

And what an adventure it soon became. As they approached, the little old lady Sara had just about fallen into came storming up to her. The very picture of righteous indignation, with a rolling pin in hand to complete the scenario.

"Now, listen, here, young woman...!" she began to scream.

Sara leaned back, a little indignation of her own hanging just outside the realm of her patience.

"You do _not_ just fall in on somebody's dinner date! The mess is inexcusable! I want it taken care of, and I want it taken care of immediately! We do not–!"

"–Ma'am!" Brass had to shout, too, to get his voice above hers. With several failed, quieter calming measures under his belt, first...

She rounded on him with fiery eyes, and flung both hands to her hips. Sara's aggravation left a little with the sight of that rolling pin dangling...

"I promise you, my CSI co-worker, here did not just drop in on your dinner date voluntarily. Okay...? And don't worry, we will get through the process, and find out who's responsible for fixing your roof. That's not what we're here about; it's just kind of a given to most people."

The woman's nostrils flared, but she kept listening in silence.

"What we need to know is what _you_ know about the weakness in your ceiling."

"I shouldn't think I'd know anything about that," she shot back. As if it, or anything about the current situation, made any kind of sense... "I've never seen a ceiling just... cave in, you know?"

"I know," Brass said. "Believe me, I know. I see a lot of weird things in this business, but this one's not one of the more common occurrences. Thank God..."

The fatherly look of concern that was in his eyes, as he shot them sideways at Sara, warmed her up a little. Despite the lack of up close care in her present life, there _were_ those people around who always seemed to know what she needed...

"But somebody tampered with your ceiling. They made kind of a mess doing it, too. Didn't you notice the discoloration of your ceiling?"

"I can't say I have, no." Perhaps the weight of what had just occurred was finally sinking in; she seemed moderately more concerned about the implications behind it, all of a sudden.

"Then I don't suppose you could tell me who did it... Or who might have done it? Or even _when_ it might have been done?"

She shook her head. But it was then that her gentleman friend finally spoke.

"I know it wasn't like that last night," he added. "I remember because I was looking up at the fan, thinking it needed a new light bulb. And checking the ceiling for leaks."

He was a little slower speaking, but much less abrasive. And there was a kindness to him that Sara appreciated. Enough to offer him a very slight and short smile.

But one that the old woman with the rolling pin did not miss. "Now, don't you get any funny ideas about stealing my man!"

Complete shock overtook Sara, and her professionalism went on a momentary hike. Her jaw hit the gravel, and her arms unfolded so that they could dangle at her side.

Brass confiscated the rolling pin, as she waved it for emphasis at Sara. His lips were very tightly pressed, and she knew that he wanted to laugh as much as she had.

"Ma'am..." he said for the fiftieth time. "Please, try to focus. We need details. We need evidence..."

"Well, perhaps I could help with that." Greg had approached, and there was a very accomplished-looking expression on him. He raised the photo frame, in an evidence bag, with one hand. "I think I recognize somebody in this picture."

He was talking about Brandon, of course... but it was the woman in the picture he pointed to, as he held it out to them. "Do you know these people at all?"

Both the old lady and her much-coveted man leaned in to examine the picture more closely. The man even moved his glasses up.

But the answer surprised Sara more than a little. "I do..." the woman confessed. "I do know them."

Sara stood up straighter. "What?"

"That young lady, there?" continued the woman. "That was my daughter."

" _Our_ daughter..." the man said. "And that fine-looking gentleman, there, is our grandson."

* * *

The address provided by the storage guard took Nick to a familiar place: the neighborhood in which the first crime had been committed. He could see that as soon as he laid eyes on it. The only question had been, how close would it get...?

As it turned out, right across the street. The police tape was still very visible when he looked back at the miserable house. As he climbed down from the SUV and made his second stupid choice of the night: approaching a potential suspect's house without backup... His hand came up somewhat unwittingly to his gun... but he did not stop at all as he crossed the porch and gave the doorbell a ring.

It didn't take long for the potential suspect to come to the door, though. The sounds of game show voices on a television cranked down, and then, there he was. Jason the janitor... Brandon's self-professed understanding buddy.

The buddy who – upon registering the presence of a strange man on the porch – looked a little confused. "Yes?"

"Jason Veran?"

"That's me," he confirmed. "What can I do for you?"

At first, all Nick could do was sigh. There were so many answers to that question.


	21. Proverbial Hill

"I don't think Brandon quite understood what I was trying to do."

The cold air breezed around them, and the thirties-ish man before Nick had wrapped himself up in his own arms, but invited them both to sit on his front swing.

"I been watching the kid's life since he came to live with his grandparents. And it's been a real train wreck, lemme tell ya... His grandmother adored him, but his grandfather didn't like him. Like, at all... And how fast he died after Brandon came, I'd have almost thought _she'd_ done it..."

Nick nodded, and inclined his head for further explanation. "Well, maybe we'll look into that. But what I want to know is how it was when the uncle came."

"Who?" asked Jason. "The guy who died today? That wasn't his uncle. Wasn't related at all to the family."

Despite himself, and the number of lies he uncovered professionally, Nick could not quite keep the widening of his eyes in check.

Jason sniffed in the cold night air, and averted his eyes uncomfortably. "The guy just came in one day and took over. My wife at the time noticed it first. I remember days where we would see the kid climbing out of a window, and suddenly the guy's hands would pull him back in. Brandon kicked so hard... Like he was trying to get away by any means necessary. But the guy was a brute. He'd just drag the kid upstairs and lean him out a window, and threaten to drop him if he 'ever tried that again'."

There was a mocking tone in his voice that told Nick Jason had been bothered by this for quite some time. And his feelings of remorse – largely crushed by the turns of the case – began to resurface again.

"I think the guy was molesting him. At school, Brandon had this real thing, you know...? About... well, about dicks... Like he was trying to wrap his head around something he didn't understand. And he got caught messing around with one of the other boys in his class during the 12th grade. We'd see weird things happening through the windows, but we never could get a clear enough visual on it, or a picture, or anything."

"Why didn't you call the police?!" demanded Nick, irritation raising the question he had so wanted to ask.

"We did!" Jason replied. "But they never did anything! They came to the house to do a wellness check each time, but there was never anything more. They told us they hadn't found anything incriminating, and that was the only investigation they ever had. The balding man leading the thing told us to find something concrete, and call them again. Gave me his card, and everything... But we couldn't get anything, no matter what we did. I even tried creeping over at night... There was just nothing obvious enough."

"Whose card...?" pressed Nick. More for an easy lead on holding the son of a bitch responsible than anything else...

"I don't know," said Jason, annoyed... as if this were not the point. "It's inside somewhere. Still on my fridge. But after that, I started talking to the kid a little. Found out some details, and tried to be understanding about the whole thing. I let him work with me on the janitor jobs sometimes, after school. Even paid him a little something for it, out of my own pocket, thinking maybe he'd get to go out and have fun every once in a while."

Nick nodded, and leaned forward to hear better through the wind.

"But then, one day, I came into the janitor's office and found that Brandon had just finished jacking off in my chair. There was a picture of me and my family covered with his... Well, his..."

"Sperm," Nick filled in.

"Yeah, sperm. And I mean, I kinda felt bad about it, but I freaked out. I turned it in to the school, and Brandon was made to go straight home after that. It was, like, a year before he graduated. We didn't talk much during it, but when he was finished, and jumped right into a job at the tech warehouse, we ended up talking one day over lunch, and he apologized for the whole thing. Said he was just a kid, trying to work things out and move on. From his 'uncle's' fucked up living environment... I let it go. Never had any problems, since."

Nick took a deep breath, and scratched his forehead as Jason's story came to an end. An increasingly piercing feeling of discomfort was growing in his chest, and the last question he needed to ask was hesitant to leave him.

"When was the last time you saw him...?"

"About two weeks ago," Jason replied, eyes on his feet where they huddled up in front of him. "Told me he'd been promoted, but that he'd come back to rescue his grandma. I was worried he might ask me to help him, but he never did. He said he was going to go to the police, himself. I wished him good luck, and that was the end of it."

Nick sat up from his position of weariness, and his phone buzzed. Finally driven beyond breaking point on the family front, he tore it from his pocket, and shut it off. And as he placed it back where it was, he affixed Jason with a sympathetic look.

"Thank you for your help. When the case finally comes through, I'll tell you anything I can," he promised.

He stood up, and stretched his back a little, both ways. Jason did not respond so well to the night, though. He merely squeezed his arms a little tighter around himself.

"But for now, could I get that card, or a picture of it?" Nick tried again. "I wonder if the person still works with L.V.P.D... and I'd like to get their insight on this whole thing. Maybe even bring 'em in on the case."

"Sure."

Jason disappeared into the house. And Nick peeked inside... There was a drastically different environment from the one suggested by Brandon's childhood home. In stark contrast to the alcohol-drenched despair and depravity that they had drug their victim out of, Jason's home appeared warm and caring, and welcoming to all who entered with the best of intentions. He was a good guy... and Nick wondered whatever had caused an "at the time" marriage... Because whoever the red-haired woman was that kissed him, and then waved to Nick through the front door, she did seem to be a past tense affair.

But helpfully, Jason explained without any urging. "That's my current wife. Old one left a couple years ago. Things just didn't work out..."

Nick angled his eyes down, mind darting to the recent divorce of his friend...

"Yeah," he said. "Seen that a few times..."

"Yeah," echoed Jason. "Well, anyway, here's that card. It's old, but it's not too faded to read."

He held it out between two fingers, and Nick took it like it was about to fall apart. He didn't even need to read the clearly-visible label at the top to know whose it was, though.

"Son of a bitch..." he uttered, tiredly.

 _Conrad Ecklie_.

"Of course," Nick said. "Of course it was..."

"Something wrong?" asked Jason, and the tone he used was revealing.

It told Nick that Jason's understanding was core. And he knew why Brandon, in such a terrible place, had gravitated towards him.

"Thank you," he said. "But it's nothing major. I _do_ have someone to see, though..."

As he left the porch, and his feet made contact with the concrete of the walkway again, the question perhaps most important... both to him, and to Jason... was spoken aloud by the latter.

"He did it, didn't he?"

Nick stopped, and turned around. "I'm sorry?"

"Brandon," Jason clarified. "He killed the guy across the street. And his grandmother's dead..."

Nick bit down on his tongue, literally, and rubbed his eyes with one hand. "I'm not supposed to say it, but... Yes. His grandmother's dead... And all the evidence suggests that Brandon... for whatever reasons... may be responsible."

There was shock, but little of it, in Jason's expression. "I see..." And his gaze dropped momentarily... "Thanks for letting me know, anyway... I promise, I won't tell until it's safe."

Nick smiled. He couldn't help it. "Thank you very much, Mr. Veran. And you have a very good night. Sorry to interrupt you and your wife."

"No problem," answered Jason.

And the words stayed in Nick's mind – both reassuringly and invigoratingly – the rest of his drive back to the lab. With an image in his mind, his stolen evidence recovered, and perhaps the discovery that he knew Grissom would call the most valuable, yet: understanding.

* * *

"Your daughter..." repeated Brass. Sounding almost disbelieving...

"That's right," replied the old lady, squinting at the picture. "She was..."

"What? How–how..." Sara stumbled over her words. A lot of questions were forming in her mind. But after a short bit, she settled on the one that rang most prominently. "Where is she?"

A look of uncomfortable remorse crossed her husband's face, and he suddenly seemed to take the reins on the speaking part. "She died. Several years ago... When her husband– Er... Well, that young bastard she married may have killed her."

Greg threw his hands up. Brass rubbed his forehead, and reached for a notepad to scribble things down in.

But Sara stepped a little closer, and leaned in to get answers. Through all the chaos... Through all the excitement. All she wanted, more than anything else at that time, was something to work with. To help these people find their peace... "What happened...?"

The elderly couple looked at each other. And at least a hundred worries came out on their faces. But they each sighed... and the wife gripped her husband's forearm with one hand. And he returned her gesture by placing his other hand on top of hers.

"Our daughter met and married a young man by the name of Brandon, when she was very young. He was a football star, you see... and she was ever the queen of the popular girls."

"But we didn't like him!" the wife burst in with. "Not at all! He–"

"Honey..."

There was a saddened tone behind this admonishment. As if they had spoken of it many times before, and he had always had to calm her down at this part. And her response – to fall silent with no further outburst – felt the same way.

"In school, he was accused of rape. But when it could not be proved, it was dropped... and try though we did to keep Andrea away from him, she didn't listen. Young children, they find a way, Ms. Sidle. I'm sure you can understand..."

Sara smiled back at him. Although, if there was one solid thing she had learned from her career, it was that she didn't want children.

"We had to admit, we felt a little foolish when he opened his home cleaning business," continued the husband. "And even more so when he gave her enough money to open her own décor company. They made such wonderful plastic products, and everybody loved them. Even some of the bigger casinos here in Las Vegas were looking for them... It was quite a life she was carving out. And then, she was pregnant, and we were all very excited about it.

"Except, apparently, for Brandon. After they were married, and Brandon Jr. had been born, we found out that he had been hitting her. With his fists, and tools, and household implements... Our little girl... That was sometime back in the early nineties. And again, we tried and tried to talk her out of it with him. We offered to move her into our place. To pay for the legal expenses... Anything it took."

"And she wouldn't budge," said the wife. "It was years, Ms. Sidle. Years, and we knew what was being done to our daughter. And they wouldn't listen to us... Not the police, or the team running the investigations. Eventually, they left. Went to Phoenix, and started a life there. Or, at least, that's what they told us... We didn't believe them, and when we finally had to decide if we would go and find out, we didn't. By then, they had come back. We didn't know that, at the time, either. Until I ran into Brandon's mother at the store one evening..."

She fell silent. And so did Sara, even through the many lines she was trained to offer – by the department, and by experience – that were rising to her mind. And neither Brass, nor Greg had spoken a word.

"The plastics business closed in 2000. But Andrea got another job, working for a jeweler."

Sara perked up.

"She lives... well, right above us. I'm guessing it was her bathroom you fell through?"

Sara rubbed the side of her arm. "Yes..." she admitted sheepishly.

"I see... And what kind of trouble has the woman gotten into...?"

"Yes," added the wife. "We always thought she was one of the better neighbors..."

The charming nature of such a statement would stick with Sara for a long time. Even as it was spoken, she could not help smiling. And she supposed there was no real reason to try to explain to people whose developing years were from such a different time why a good neighbor could still be a bad person.

"We're not at liberty to discuss that," came in Brass for the save. "Can you tell us what you knew about Mrs. Geraldine Samekey?"

"Just that she was awarded custody when they found our daughter's body. She had had 'more contact' with Brandon, and so the judge gave him to her." The husband brushed his chest off, as if there was something there, and gave a little shrug. "She let us see him frequently for the first year. But then, they never seemed to be around... That picture, there, came from his graduation."

A dark look came over both of their faces, and Sara felt compelled to lean a little closer...

"There was a man, there..." the husband proceeded.

But his tone had slowed down, greatly. As if he were on the edge of something large, and unpleasant.

"After the ceremony, we went looking for Brandon to ask what he'd been up to, and we found him behind the school. With... that man..."

The wife winced, and re-took over the explaining. "Our grandson was... on his knees, in the dirt. Performing oral... _sexual_ acts on this... man, Ms. Sidle!"

Greg's eyes grew about four sizes. "In public...?" he inquired. "A man claiming to be the uncle of a barely-legal high-school graduate was accepting oral sex from him? Right after the ceremony...?"

"Oh, it was terrible..." said the wife, and put her head in the hand that wasn't holding on to her husband's forearm. "We began to shriek, but we were told to stop. He took Brandon by the neck, and began to drag him away. He said he would injure him if we did not stop calling attention to us. There was a look on Brandon's... face..."

Her voice broke. Her husband's arm came up around her shoulder, and patted it.

He then looked directly at Sara, and no one else around them. "We have been receiving letters from someone. Threatening us frequently, should we speak about it. Saying we were being watched... We went to the police station once. But when we got out, we saw that man up by the door. And then, as we went to the ice cream shop, instead, we passed Brandon. Right by the apartment complex. Over there, actually..."

He pointed, though Sara did not look. And he did not look away...

"His eye was black. He looked up at me..."

A shaky, course breath entered the older man's lips in the short break between sentences. Sara squeezed her elbows in her opposite hands.

"He was trying to warn us, I think. That they were hurting him... And the other person, behind him, was standing unusually close. With his arm cocked forward... like he was pressing a gun into his back."

A silence fell. And all Sara could hear were the wild thoughts racing in her mind. Mixed with the sirens still going on the ambulance and police cars... The red hot rage that rolled through her was unsurpassed by anything she had ever felt before.

"We never did try to contact them after that," finished the wife. "We figured it was for the best. If there is a God out there... it's in His hands, now."

Then Greg was suddenly beside Sara. He looked over at her with the same kind of obnoxious concern she was so used to seeing on his face.

But then he spoke... and she knew at once that he hadn't been thinking about her well-being like before. "Brandon's... here. In town, still. And the man... the one who hurt him... is dead."

A funny feeling replaced Sara's anger for a moment. When the old woman burst out crying, and a few silent tears left her husband's dreary eyes, the relief they were feeling – though she could not imagine it fully – seemed to find its way to her own heart, as well.

"Oh, God..." the woman sobbed. "Oh, thank God!"

She sniffled, and reached instinctively into her husband's pocket, withdrawing a handkerchief like she knew he wouldn't dare to complain about her using it.

"Where is Geraldine, then?" the husband asked. "We can all have our reunion!"

"Oh, I've so much to bake..." the wife added. "Can we go and see Brandon, now? We–"

Brass had started saying "ma'am" long before he ended up having to shout. But the two old grandparents – though they did fall quiet – did not look discouraged.

Until they heard what he had to say next. "She's dead, too. And Brandon's a suspect in her death. As well as his abuser's. We'll be talking to him next. Downtown..."

* * *

The lab seemed unusually quiet. Nick did not stride like he usually tried to when moving around through it. The little, outdated card in his hand weighed too much for being so scientifically light... And it was the person whose name was on it that he was occasionally glancing around for. The questions hiding in his mind were just too much to push down. If he tried, he would come undone. And if he came undone, it would not be as an emotional mess, unfit to keep working. Not anymore...

So he stayed quiet as he looked into Hodges' lab. Before he remembered Hodges was gone... Ecklie would have to be around somewhere. He would have to give IA their obligatory tour around the lab.

But when he finally caught up with him, it was Russell he was with. Nick gave pause as he drew level with them by the guest waiting area. A couple of people with visitors' tags were sitting in the chairs, but the tones of the two were hushed. He wondered, however ridiculous it sounded, if they had talked about him at all...

"–should probably tell Sara, too..." was the last thing Nick heard from Ecklie before he had to move. Just in time to avoid letting them see that he had caught some of what they were saying...

"Ecklie," he greeted, half-accusingly. "We have to talk about our case..."

* * *

"So, if Grandiose Plastics really did close in 2000, this was all going on shortly after I came here."

Sara was sitting in the front seat of the GMC, and Greg was behind the wheel. Stacked by her feet were the evidence pieces they had acquired from the apartments. And the thought that had refused to leave her mind was the one she'd just voiced.

"Yeah..." came Greg's answer, a moment later. Muted by the light whirring of the heat in the car, and cracked slightly by the thickness of his emotion. "Yeah, it was... Before I was even a CSI..."

"There was nothing you could have done," Sara responded automatically. "There was nothing _we_ could have done. We tried! Or, well, someone did at our department..."

"'Yeah' on that one, too," Greg mused, and cleared his throat to remove the scratchiness. "I wonder about that: do you think the person involved back then still works there? At the P.D...?"

Sara shrugged. "Who knows? We could ask Ecklie, I guess. He's probably the only one who would have access to those kinds of records. But in the meantime, we had better get ahold of Nick. He'll want to know about all this. And Russell..."

But then, it occurred to her that neither Nick nor Russell might appreciate that. Russell insisted that Nick was not done supervising, and he wasn't about to break form. So that meant Nick might feel slighted if they deferred to Russell instead of him. She bit down on her bottom lip...

"Do you think we should skip Russell?"

Greg's expression reminded her a little of Nick's, actually. Under similar circumstances... "Yeah, I think we should skip Russell on that call list. Just call Nick. Find out what he wants us to do after we get our evidence secured, and how it turned out at the storage unit."

She nodded, and began to scroll through her phone's contacts. There was a beep when she tapped Nick's name. It brought a small, toothy grin to her face.

But Nick did not answer. She tried again. And again, and again. And again a few times after. Until Greg's hand came out, and slid her phone from her hand to the car's top storage console.

"He's not answering on purpose, Sara. He's probably busy. Managing, and all that..."

There was an oddly-playful tone to his voice, but Sara did not focus in on it for long. "Bullshit," she said, instead. "And don't touch my phone when I'm using it."

She retrieved it... and ran her finger up and down her list of contacts. And hoped against hope that he would call back before she landed on another one. An odd feeling pulsed shortly when her finger landed on Grissom. But when she pushed down a little ways, and the list came up to last name "B" category, she was struck with an idea

"Oh," she breathed. "Of course..."

Morgan answered immediately, unlike the object of her sudden concern. "Hello?"

"Morgan? It's Sara. Hey, have you heard from Nick?"

The sound of her own voice was mildly grating on her nerves. She chewed on the end of her tongue behind her lips.

Morgan's voice, on the other hand, was all too cheerful. "Can't say that I have. Got some great news on the case front, though! Guess who I just ran into?"

Sara waved a hand across her face, as if to indicate her lack of interest. But then, upon remembering that Morgan couldn't see her, she simply asked: "Who?"

"Detective Moreno," Morgan answered. "I guess Brandon has been the center of investigation before... And Detective Vega worked with my dad on the last one!"

Sara shot upright in her seat. "Oh!" she exclaimed in sheer exasperation. "Of course!"

Morgan didn't seem to pick up the exasperation part, though. "I know!" she kept going excitedly. "It's so weird... But Vega was Moreno's stepfather, and he left some information on the previous case. Moreno is going to bring it to CSI for us!"

Sara rubbed her eyes and fought to keep the insincerity out of her voice as she answered. "That's great, Morgan. You keep working on that with Pip. Greg and I have some new evidence, too, so we'll see you back at CSI, then."

"'That's great'...?" repeated Morgan. "Are you serious? That's huge! I–"

 _Beep_.

Sara gave her phone a light toss, and leaned her head on one knee, a foot propping it up on the seat cushion. "Greg, hurry up. Get back to the lab."

"Sorry?" he asked sarcastically. "Did I hear a 'please'?"

"Sorry... _Please_ get back to the lab, so the next case on our load doesn't begin with your dead body."

He started sideways at her. Until there was a honk in the next lane, and he had to look away to correct his steering.

"Well, don't kill someone!" she shouted.

He gripped the top of the wheel more tightly. "I can't do it all, Sara." he said through gritted teeth. "It's either haste or care... Which do you want?"

"Okay, okay," she threw out hastily. "I'm sorry, really. Let me grab some evidence."

For they had just pulled back in to the lab. And even though he was going slow – and she wondered if he did so on purpose, the mousy little bastard – she did not rush ahead. They hauled the evidence, reported it to the new desk worker on shift, and dropped it in the separate locker room for large, unprocessed articles. Then she brushed her hands off, and looked around...

She had forgotten, for a second, where the secondary evidence locker room was, in relation to Grissom's office.

No, Russell's...

No... That wasn't right, either. It was Nick's, for the night. And that was where she stalked off too, just after registering that Greg had initialed the collection clipboard for them both.

There was a slight briskness in her walk. It was one of those feelings she was sure there was a word for, but she didn't know it. Her head didn't turn much, but her eyes seemed to be moving themselves back and forth, in spite of her best efforts to control them. She could see Greg blinking and frowning, puzzled, in the walls' reflections as he followed after her.

"Sara? Are you...?" Greg began to say.

But she ignored him. Her feet came a little more under her control. She put a slight swing into her arms, rather than the stiff downward angle that they had been. Her head turned more freely with her eyes. She took a few deep breaths. Everything was fine. And there he was, standing at the desk he was borrowing back for the evening, an old folder spreading out before him, and his hands expertly separating whatever was in it. She was taken, again, by a visible sadness in his stance. Although she couldn't have explained it, she did not even want to struggle with it. She resumed her brisk pace, and slammed right into the back of him.

Or at least, that's what she guessed she had done. "Oof!" was the sound he made. It hadn't seemed as much to her.

"Was somebody missing me?" he teased, eyes still on the folder.

"Oh, sure," she returned. "I called you to tell you."

He took a break from his folder sorting to make a dismissive gesture with the hand he'd been using. "I turned my phone off. The family were starting to drive me crazy."

So, _that_ was the sadness... "Oh. Sorry..."

But he must not have missed the edge in her words. He pulled the phone from his shirt pocket, and pressed down on the power button.

"It's alright, Nick. I just wanted to tell you about the evidence we found. And the story we heard..."

She brushed some of her hair, which seemed longer to her, all of a sudden, out of her eyes.

"And, you know, to check in. You, uh... assigned yourself to yourself. Just making sure nothing else had happened..."

He gave a single nod, and brief flash of his teeth. He got what she meant, and she knew that he had. That was enough to settle her down.

"I'm okay," he said. "I just found and heard some things, too..."

She let her temple come to rest on his shoulder. "Oh...? Like what?"

"Something important. I think you'll want to see this..."


	22. Brandon

It was hard, at first, to tell himself whose face looked funniest. Greg was fingering the edge of the folder with Ecklie's old case files on Brandon, with eyes wider than saucers, and a bottom lip on the floor. Sara, on the other hand, had contracted most of her features in an attempt to avoid that exact look. The result being that she had adapted a blank-looking stare he'd often associated with her trying too hard to figure something out on the unemotional side of things. Kind of like what she'd been wearing during her recounting of Brandon's maternal grandparents' – Mr. and Mrs. Barre – tale. The look he was sure he'd be wearing, too. If not for his bemusement...

He leaned forward on the desk, hands rubbing together once or twice almost of their own accord, and affixed them with a very telling glare. "Here's the deal, you guys," he muttered. "I'd like for us to keep as close together as we can. I want this wrapped up soon. So let's get what we've got processed, and when the others arrive, we'll go over it all with them."

He paused... and considered not adding what he was thinking of adding... but decided he'd better, for the sake of honesty. "I'm a little... fed up... with all the extras. I'm not saying they don't do their jobs, but if we could make this quick, and between us, I'd feel a lot better. You get what I mean?"

It didn't surprise him so much that Sara nodded at once. Greg didn't seem to be able to resist putting a little drama into it, though; he leaned back in his chair, crossed his arms, and stuck his lip out to show _his_ agreement.

Nevertheless, Nick chuckled. "Come on, then."

And they separated down the hall, into their own corners of the materials lab.

Nick took the plant molecules, the plant they came from, and the various shoe prints, which all looked a lot better under the microscope than they had at face value. He felt he'd done pretty well, but there was still no way to associate the shoe, or shoes, with whoever might have been wearing them. Even tests for leftover DNA or fingerprints came back negative... All he could conclude was that they were the same prints, down to the last computer-read striation. It had taken a lot of time, and that was frustrating enough to him, without Sara and Greg prancing in just before he could get started on the plant studies.

"Well..." Greg began. "Somebody was _not_ happy with Madame Challal."

"I don't blame them," Nick murmured, not a lick of kidding in his voice. "I hate that bitch like a horse hates a fly."

Sara seemed to find this amusing. She laughed, anyway, and slapped him on his shoulder. "Texas talk, Nicky?"

His spirits brightened a little. She was often the most somber about their work; she must have found something good to take such a heavy statement so lightly. And if she had...

"We can call it that, sure." He set his glasses down on the table, and straightened up. "Anything...?"

As expected, Sara swept forward and presented him with the file she held, like she used to do with Grissom. The correlation – observed privately by Nick – brought his spirits up a little further, still.

"It's that girl," Greg explained, as Nick began to read. "The receptionist as Madame Challal's warehouse... Sara says she showed you all to the vault."

And the picture by the printouts was, indeed, that of the young woman who Nick had noticed when first meeting Madame Challal. And the one that had directed him to Sara and Morgan in the vault.

"Jane Thorton," he read. "Previously imprisoned for blatant prostitution, huh?"

Sara folded her arms and lit up her face with a self-satisfied smirk. "I know. What a reputable receptionist Madame Challal's got, there..."

Nick's lips turned up. And a slight chuckle – just in one exhale – left them. "What a secret she had to hide..."

"I doubt that's the big bombshell," Greg said. "It's not even related to Madame Challal, necessarily. It just tells us who defecated all over her house."

"Mmm," Nick agreed wordlessly. "I don't know that that has a lot to do with Madame Challal's crimes, though. She might just be a bad boss. And that would be one hell of a way to turn in a resignation to a bad boss... Especially one like Madame Challal."

He could tell from her restrained expression that Sara thought this to be a bit of a stretch. But she didn't argue, much to his relief. So he turned to Greg, who was carrying the bagged construction materials from the aforementioned bitch's living room.

"And you, Greggo?"

Greg stopped looking between them with so much interest, and flung the materials on the empty space of the table. "Yeah... These must've been sitting somewhere for a very long time. They're covered in Will Rice's prints. And they're very well preserved."

Nick looked again to Sara, who nodded in agreement to his surprise, and gestured to Greg to continue.

"I don't know how they got to Madame Challal's, but they're not hers. As if we needed an examination to prove that... I can't see her touching anything made of this sort of material. No, these are Will Rice's. Or at least somebody who knew him very well, like–"

"–Brandon," Nick filled in.

"That's what I'm thinking, too," said Greg. "So, what we need is a link between Brandon and at least most of these crimes. Because it looks like... whatever's going on, here... Brandon's at the center of it."

Sara's gaze had wandered off thoughtfully, but she spoke with all the presence of the ground they were on. "Definitely... His fake uncle abused him while imprisoning him and his grandmother in their own house. He took it out on some of his schoolmates and one of the janitors there, that we know of..."

In the small silence that fell, Nick let his eyes roam from her to the plant he was about to tear into. "But if we find anything of him, here... will that do it?"

"I don't know," answered Sara. "Let's find out."

Greg seemed to fade away from the proceedings for a moment. Nick and Sara disassembled the plant piece by piece, and took it in turns to run it under the microscope and the materials analyzers. They passed each other during their well-worn pace around the lab with the utmost of contentment on their faces. Several grins were exchanged. A high five or two were passed around. It all seemed to be coming together spectacularly, when...

They were done. "Phew," Nick sighed in exaggeration.

Sara flicked her goggles across the table. "Uh huh. Plant stuff..."

Greg had taken a seat in one of the stools, by the back computer. Nick caught the slightest glimpse of the Solitaire window closing before he came to join them.

"Well...? Is there anything?"

Nick shook his head. "No. We just know that these molecules came from this plant."

"Which is most likely Clara's mom's," finished Sara.

There were resolute nods, and resigned glances shared amongst them.

Then Greg asked the obvious. "But how do we prove that?"

"I don't suppose we do," answered Sara, eyes tentatively on Nick. "We didn't find any connections to Brandon."

"Yeah," confirmed Nick, pulling his own goggles off over his eyes. "We need to dig more... This stuff is incidental. At least, for now."

"But sometimes there's no evidence like incidental evidence."

They looked up at the sound of this new voice, and were a little disappointed – or, at least, Nick was – to find the entire crew marching back in. Loads of evidence in the boxes they were carrying... Russell, who had spoken, heaved his up beside the plants with a little more effort than necessary. Morgan, eyes darting everywhere, giggled loudly at something their trainee was telling her, on his way in behind her.

"I think we've got something, sir," Pip chimed in. "Something good from Brandon's warehouse."

"Where, by the way, he hasn't made many friends," added Morgan. "We've got a couple of good dishes on him..."

"And, at his house... or, sort of house... we got a connection!" the trainee shouted.

Nick waved a hand for silence over the chattering crowd. It took a couple of them, but eventually, it took effect. "This all sounds great. But can I get it one at a time? Russell...?"

Russell looked as if he were about to ask why him, but didn't seem to think it important enough to push. So he overturned the box he'd been carrying carefully.

"Computer disks," he stated, with an enthusiastic cheer in his tone. "Not even well-hidden... We'll be lucky if most of it isn't porn, but we're pretty sure one of them isn't."

"And why's that?" said Nick.

"We looked on the computer he had there, and our student, here, uncovered a coded email in it. To one Clara Jaffel," explained Russell.

"Huh?" Morgan piped up from the back. "Really...? We found something to Clara, too!"

Nick followed the line of conversation from Russell to Morgan with his eyes, but then suddenly over to Greg.

"It didn't happen to confirm that her mother used to screw with plants, did it?"

"Not really," replied Morgan. "Why?"

"'Cause it looks like the plant thing is a dead end," clarified Sara. "Unless we find something else..."

"You took apart the plant?" demanded the trainee. "I really wanted to be there for that..."

Nick began to tune them out. He addressed Russell, instead, who was regarding him with an unfathomable expression.

"Anything on Madame Challal?"

"Not on our end. Sorry, Nick," said Russell.

"That's fine," Nick said back. "We're one less bell to answer without her in the mix."

"Spoken like a true professional," interjected Russell.

It seemed to Nick that there were a few ways he could take that. But then wasn't the time to push it, regardless, so he continued. "If you could steer the room in the general direction of processing what remains, I'll go and see where Brass is on interrogating Brandon."

"Sounds like a job for Sara," said Russell.

Nick blinked. "For Sara...?"

"Your chosen assistant supervisor, right?"

There was something increasingly infuriating about Russell's laid back tactics. But it worked. Nick eyed Sara, and it occurred to him that he'd probably have another fight on his hands if he didn't involve her more than that.

"Actually..." he began.

A million thoughts ran through his head. What would she have wanted? If she had been chosen to run shift, where would she send herself? If what she told everyone was to be believed, almost anywhere would do. But if how she behaved was any indicator...

"I think Sara can come with me."

Again – albeit with less of an obnoxious quality – Russell smiled. "Now, that sounds like a good idea..."

"Great," offered Nick. "Then, we'll see you in fifteen or twenty...? Sara?"

His voice had picked up, and his hand beckoned in the direction of the latter with a single wave. Whatever she'd been saying to Greg, she dropped it midway, and came to the door with an expectant expression written in bold all over her.

"Yes?"

"Let's go check in with Jim. We've been stumbling around long enough, I think."

* * *

Brandon was far from being the same person they had seen what felt like ages ago. There were no tears running down his cheeks, and he was propped up in his chair with his arms crossed, and a sour look that had been passionately adorned. His hair was falling loosely, and his eyes were narrowed over their dark circles. Brass was outside the interrogation room, cradling a cup of something hot almost enviously as they approached.

"Anything?" Nick almost demanded.

"No," replied Brass automatically. "I haven't gone in yet. I figured you'd want to get here..."

"Sorry," said Sara. "Long search..."

"Yeah. I'm with you..." And Brass downed his scorching-looking drink in one gulp. "Well, what do we have to work with?"

"We know he's lying."

Even to himself, Nick's voice sounded faltered. He couldn't decide, even as he looked on, now, how to feel about this young man. It had seemed so real... so genuine, all the distress he'd first seen. To think that he was manipulating the situation on such a large level was completely possible; Nick had seen many more surprising things before. But as he leaned on the see-through end of the two-way glass, he couldn't quite suppress the thought that this wasn't the case, this time... How to proceed without giving that away...? Well, maybe it was best he had brought Sara...

"He doesn't work for the warehouse," Nick carried on. "And he knew Clara Jaffel, though that's... really more her lie..."

"He also knew Will Rice," said Sara. "And it sounds like Martin Trem."

Nick shook his head, and rubbed his eyes with two fingers. "That's right. I forgot that one..."

There was a pause, and he imagined the two of them looking at each other in the kind of concern he had grown to usually ignore.

Then Sara poked the back of his shoulder. "Are you okay?"

He lifted his eyes from behind his fingers and was overcome with an urge of honesty. "I don't know... But I think, uh... I think you'd better do this one alone. Or, well..." He indicated Brass, watching them with faint interest. "The two of you, if Jim wants in."

Brass raised two hands in surrender, and made a dismissive shrug. "I think Sara's got this one."

"Yeah," agreed Nick. His lips felt as if they were widening themselves. "Yeah, so do I."

She took a disingenuous bow. "Thank you. Thank you... But, Nick... are you sure?"

There was a rather different attitude behind her, now. Less accusatory... It steeled his resolve like a punch to the gut.

"I am," he stated. "I think I'm going to have... rather a lot to answer for when you come out of that room. It'll be easier to answer to if I'm nowhere near the fall out."

"So, leave it for me, then..." she said, sounding as steeled as he felt.

But he was tired of that put-upon implication. And it came out as a weary reprimand. "Don't take that view of it, Sara. I wish I could say I hate to ask you to be strong, but we all know you're too good at it. And you enjoy it too much. That's the real reason you came back."

It was a sudden shift of implication, but it was exactly the last thing he'd wanted to say hours ago. So, of course, it was the perfect thing to say right then...

And rather than flare up, she smiled. "You know me so well." And she sighed, "Well... Okay. Alright... Take notes, then, boys."

And she strode unbrokenly into the room beyond the glass.

* * *

There was both satisfaction and empowerment behind her when she dropped into the chair opposite their suspect. Something strange about feeling watched, in a way that was more enticing than unnerving, put a drive beneath her go.

But if Brandon noticed it, he did not act on it. "Where's Nick at?" he snapped at once.

But she'd been ready. "Nick's busy," she shot. "You've left us a real mess, and Nick's stuck cleaning it up."

" _I_ have...?" demanded Brandon. "How _me_?"

Having averted her gaze to disguise some of the impatience, Sara flicked her eyes back just as quickly to deliver the command with them. "That's exactly what you're going to tell me, now, Brandon. And I expect honest, evidence-supported answers. We have enough to land you in prison for a very long time, so if you care about avoiding that anymore, then you'll be honest. And you'd better have good explanations for anything contradictory."

Then the tears started. Or, one of them, at least... But it was different from the ones before. Silent... and decorating a cold face instead of a distraught one.

"If you've got all the evidence, then you already know what happened," the suspect retorted. "You know that my 'uncle' was abusing me. You know I went to school with things under my existence that none of my other classmates could have possibly imagined..."

"I also know you took it out on some of them." Sara leaned back, and folded her hands over her lap. Her tone was unaltered. "I know you were after your janitor friend, Jason Veran. I know you were very sick in the head, and that what you were doing to others was not acceptable, even if there were real horrors behind it."

"That's easy for you to say," he brushed off. "But there was no one really there for me. My grandma couldn't do anything. My school didn't know. My parents were gone..."

"Your parents were screwed up, too, Brandon." And she didn't know what had caused her to say that. "I doubt they would have helped you if they could have..."

She knew it had been the right thing to say, though. His eyes shot up, and they narrowed in an anger that could not have come from a conscious source.

"How do you know that?!" he shrieked. "Your evidence can only carry you so far!"

"You know your grandparents," she answered, composedly. "Your mother's mother and father... You know they tried to help you. And you know about Martin Trem."

Brandon waved one hand, but clutched at the edge of his suit's front opening with the other. "Fuck Trem."

Even though she hadn't held the high view point of him that Nick had, such a sudden outburst of vulgarity took her by surprise. She inclined her head downward a little, and affixed him with a new look of sternness.

"Tell me about that, then."

"He was just my uncle's favorite toy on the block. He had a thing for older guys, and he liked them drunk. There was no better candidate than that disgusting pile of human garbage calling himself my father's brother. But being a drunk didn't kill all his self-preservation; Trem's such a nympho that all it took were some light threats of cutting him off to get him to do what Hector wanted. And me...?" He snorted. "I had a lot more to hold over his head after Hector died."

"You mean, after you killed him," corrected Sara.

"No," said Brandon. And there was a new shakiness to his voice. "No, I may not have been entirely innocent, but I did _not_ kill that piece of shit." More than one angry tear accompanied this insistence. "I wish I had years ago, but I never could do it..."

"Right..." said Sara. As close as she'd been to telling him that she didn't buy it, her sudden loss for conviction stunned her.

"Look... I only found my mom's parents because... I knew somebody. Somebody with a girlfriend who had a thing for ancestry. She looked them up for me one day, and that was that. But that didn't make any difference, either. Sure, they might have _tried_ to help me, but it didn't do any good. If they'd been serious, they would have known that I wouldn't have cared what happened to me anymore. They'd have shot me, themselves. But they didn't, so when I took my friend and his girlfriend over to their house, I got him to do a little... reconstruction on the ceiling. No big deal, you know? Had to do what I had to do."

"And that was trying to kill them?" exclaimed Sara. "Because they couldn't break you out, either!?"

"Of course!" he shouted. "What else was I supposed to do?! When I finally left home, there was nothing else for it! I couldn't have... My grandma was stuck..."

He fell silent for a moment. An understanding for what Nick had been thinking began to sink in to Sara's mind. This was a pathetic young man. But it was to the core. And she knew what he was about to say, and how it would sicken her.

He lifted his head, and his face had turned red. "He let me go, and I don't know why, but maybe he'd just given up. He didn't even threaten to kill her. My grandma... He left her be. He wouldn't leave her house... but he let her be. At least, that's what she tried to tell me, when–"

There was another pause. Another moment when Brandon looked down at his own hands. And she took that opportunity to glance over at the glass. Where the other two were watching, stuck because their entering the room would spoil the confession.

"She had to die, Miss Sidle," he finished. His head came up, and unbelievably, incredulously... he looked like he was pleading for understanding. "I had to save her. No one had saved me... Jason had tried. He tried to save me, too, when he heard us in the old building... But I couldn't let him. He wasn't really saving us. We fought, but... he wasn't as strong as my uncle."

She rubbed each cheek with the corresponding hand. She closed her eyes, and willed that she wouldn't cry, herself. Either with pity or exhaustion, as she realized how Brandon's grandmother had surely died...

But she couldn't linger on that, right then. "Brandon... how does Madame Challal come into this?"

She had to try. Had to get the answers that would soon be unreachable if he continued on in his present state.

Brandon gave another snort. "What...?"

"We found that someone had tried to break into her vault," Sara pressed. "Martin Trem's fingerprints were all over the tools used. You said you were calling the shots with him. What did you want from her?"

" _I_ didn't want anything," Brandon replied. " _He_ did. I thought it best not to push it, so I didn't. Martin was cooperating, so I let that go. I didn't give a damn what the bitch was into that Martin was interested in. Said she owed him something... That's all I know on that."

"Fine," Sara gave in at once. She figured it made sense that the Madame Challal thing wouldn't be that easy. "What about Clara Jaffel? She found you the morning after she slept with Hector Halsen, grossly, all over the house. What did you say to her?"

"I told her to fuck off and mind her own fucking business, that's what!" screamed Brandon. "The bitch... She knew what was going on! Knew it since school! She used to come to our house and babble on and on about her mom screwing with plants. She gave me so many as 'gifts' that I started dropping them out the window! Then she got that job at the store her dad owns, and my grandma just fell in love with her. 'Cause the one thing she didn't have to lose after my asshole grandpa died was all the jewelry he'd left her. She started squirreling money away... Told me she was saving for a special piece she'd been eyeing most of that store's life. Started pressuring me to hook up with Clara. Seemed to think dear, old 'uncle' would be all good with it. Didn't seem to cross her mind that it was because he was a disgusting pervert, and a drunk. He just wanted her. And I wasn't about to get in the middle of _that_. Who'd she think he'd take it out on? Me!

"But that wasn't all. Clara wanted him, too! When she turned seventeen, she started coming around all the time! She brought my grandma a few cheap pieces, and her clothes got skimpier and skimpier... They both just loved her! But she didn't talk to me, much. And I liked it that way. It was how I finally got out of the house."

"What do you mean by that, Brandon?" asked Sara, reservedly.

"I mean, when the bitch finally came and got what she wanted, I got what I wanted: the hell out of there!" He was full-tilt bellowing, now. "So I left the miserable hellhole behind, and went to find Jason! But he was doing so well, I just left it alone! Told him I was better, and went to buy a place!"

His tone dropped quickly, and she was reminded briefly of her case working with Grissom in a mental institution.

"Trashed it up real quick with no one else there, and started smuggling files home from work. When they caught me, they fired me. Big whoop..."

"And what did you want files for?" she inquired, softly.

And that was it. He dissolved into the teary, broken state he had been during all their previous encounters with him.

"I just... wanted to tell my story to _some_ body..." He wiped at his eyes with his palms. "I've had enough, Miss Sidle... I don't want another job. I don't want a prison sentence. I don't want to know what else happened with my family. I just want out of this whole thing... This whole... This– No more life..."

She knew there'd be nothing out of him from then on. And she considered touching his hands while he melted down to the table, but did not, and stood up, instead.

"There can't be... nothing, Brandon," she tried. "But I want you to know, for all the good it's worth to you, I'm sorry."

If it had mattered to him, he didn't indicate, in any way. She left the room with nothing else to give, and nothing else to gain. Their questions were answered, and she was good enough with that to keep herself together when she passed the threshold back out into the hall.


End file.
